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THE  LIBRARY 
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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OxC 


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THE  LAST  MEETING 


IN     PARTNERSHIP.       Studies     in     Story  -  Telling. 
By   BRANDER    MATTHEWS    and    H.   C.    BUNNER. 
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THE  LAST  MEETING 


A  STORY 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1885 


COPYRIGHT,    1885 
BY  BRANDER  MATTHEWS 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


GRANT    *    FAIRKS 
PHILADELPHIA 


'325" 


TO 
MY  FRIEND 

H.  C.  BUNNER 


1G742SO 


CONTENTS. 


I.  FREDERICK  OLYPHANT, i 

II.  MRS.   SUTTON  AT  HOME, 12 

III.  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WASHINGTON  SQUARE,  ...  27 

IV.  IN  THE  "  LOVER'S  RETREAT," 44 

V.  THE  FULL  SCORE, 61 

VI.  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART,  ....  83 

VII.  AFTER  DINNER, 102 

VIII.  A  STRANGE  COINCIDENCE, 116 

IX.  THE  TOUCH  OF  A  VANISHED  HAND, 135 

X.  THE  RETURN  OF  DEAR  JONES, 155 

XL  FOUND  FLOATING  IN  THE  BAY, 174 

XII.  A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MISSING, 187 

XIII.  No  NEWS, 204 

XIV.  GLAD  TIDINGS, 218 

XV.  THE  LAST  MEETING, 235 

XVI.  AFTER  MANY  DAYS, 260 


THE  LAST  MEETING, 


CHAPTER   I. 

FREDERICK    OLYPHANT. 

are  not  wanting  those  willing  to  abuse 
1  the  climate  of  New  York,  but  even  the  most 
vindictive  of  these,  after  declaring  that  the  cold 
of  winter,  the  dust  of  spring  and  the  heat  of 
summer  are  alike  intolerable,  finds  himself  con 
strained  to  confess  that  there  is  nothing  to  be 
said  against  the  few  brief  weeks  of  delight  which 
intervene  after  the  hot  spells  of  the  African  sum 
mer  and  before  the  cold  snaps  of  the  Arctic 
winter.  In  these  rich  and  mellow  days  of  the 
Fall — to  use  the  good  old  English  word  often 
ignorantly  miscalled  an  Americanism — the  air 
is  both  balmy  and  bracing  ;  and  the  joy  of  living, 
the  mere  animal  pleasure  of  existence,  is  the 
portion  of  every  healthy  man  as  he  takes  his 
walks  abroad.  This  season  is  not  the  mild  and 
enervating  Indian  summer  which  may  sometimes 


2  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

follow  it  after  a  frost  or  two  ;  it  is  the  Fall  as  it  is 
seen  at  its  best  along  the  Atlantic  coast,  after  it 
has  begun  to  paint  the  trees  and  the  vines  in 
ruddy  colors  which  recall  the  war-paint  of  the 
departed  inhabitants  of  these  shores.  It  is  the 
season  of  perfect  bodily  felicity,  when  men  return 
to  town,  rested  and  refreshed  and  ready  to  buckle 
to  their  winter's  work. 

On  the  afternoon  of  a  day  toward  the  end  of 
October,  a  day  which  was  a  sample  of  the  very 
best  the  clerk  of  the  weather  can  offer  to  his 
American  customers,  Mr.  Frederick  Olyphant, 
a  young  artist,  left  his  studio,  in  an  odd  little 
building  just  back  of  Tenth  Street,  and,  passing 
through  a  dim  alley  way  into  the  quiet  side- 
street  worn  by  the  feet  of  three  generations  of 
the  artists  of  New  York,  turned  toward  Fifth 
Avenue,  pausing  only  to  glance  at  the  clock  in 
the  picturesque  tower  of  the  Jefferson- Market 
Court-house.  There  was  a  little  tang  to  the  wrind 
as  he  walked  briskly  to  the  corner  and  started 
up  town.  He  was  going  to  Mrs.  Button's,  who, 
that  afternoon,  was  At  Home,  Tea  at  Four 
O'Clock.  It  was  almost  the  first  tea  of  the 
season.  As  a  rule,  Frederick  Olyphant  disliked 
teas,  but  at  Mrs.  Sutton's  he  hoped  to  meet  Miss 
Winifred  Marshall,  with  whom  he  was  in  love, 
and  who  had  promised  to  marry  him. 

Frederick  Olyphant  was  as  handsome  and  as 
manly  a  young  American  as  one  could  have 


FREDERICK  OL  YPHANT.  3 

found  in  a  walk  from  Central  Park  to  the  Battery. 
There  was  an  air  of  resolute  self-reliance  about 
him.  He  had  clean  and  clear-cut  features ;  his  eyes 
were  deep  brown  ;  he  wore  a  full  beard  trimmed 
squarely  below  his  chin,  and  a  dark  brown  mus 
tache  curled  away  from  his  upper  lip.  The 
American  and  the  stranger  within  his  gates  are 
alike  ready  to  praise  the  beauty  of  American 
women,  a  beauty  as  lovely  in  its  bloom  as  it  is 
fragile  and  fleeting,  though  it  is  gaining  sturdi- 
ness  and  lasting  longer  every  year,  now  that 
American  girls  live  more  in  the  open  air  and  are 
borrowing  the  common-sense  notions  and  the 
healthful  habits  of  English  women.  But  less, 
indeed,  one  may  say  little,  is  heard  about  the 
good  looks  of  American  men,  although  they  are 
almost  as  much  deserving  of  comment.  There  is 
character  in  the  face  of  an  American,  and  a  student 
of  human  nature  who  should  stand  in  Broadway 
taking  notes  need  complain  of  no  monotony  of 
feature.  Now  and  again  he  would  see  a  face 
which  might  have  been  painted  by  one  of  the 
great  Venetians  :  there  is  the  same  shrewdness, 
elevation,  and  mercantile  nobility  —  for  New 
York,  like  Venice,  is  a  city  by  the  sea,  and  her 
merchants  are  princes.  There  are  young  men, 
too,  whose  faces  are  prophetic  of  the  future  of 
the  New  World — young  men  whose  faces  are 
lighted  by  hope  and  strengthened  by  determina 
tion  ;  young  men  in  whose  eyes  can  be  seen 


^  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

what  the  English  term  Pluck  and  the  Ameri 
cans  call  Grit.  Many  of  these  young  men, 
eagrer  and  energetic,  robust  in  health,  and  athletic 

o  o  ' 

in  gait,  have  their  full  share  of  Anglo-Saxon 
good  looks.  As  handsome  as  any  in  vigor  and 
vitality  and  in  manly  strength  was  Frederick 
Olyphant,  walking  rapidly  and  firmly  up  Fifth 
Avenue  that  October  afternoon,  in  the  hope  of  a 
meeting  with  Winifred  Marshall. 

Frederick  Olyphant's  paternal  grandfather  had 
been  a  Scotchman,  but  the  rest  of  his  ancestry 
for  two  hundred  years  back  was  New  England  to 
the  core,  sons  and  daughters  of  clergymen,  given 
to  high  thinking  and  accepting  plain  living  with 
out  complaint  or  protest.  Frederick's  father  was 
the  first  of  the  family  to  venture  forth  from  New 
England  to  New  York.  This  was  no  doubt  due 
to  the  transmitted  influence  of  his  father,  Fred 
erick's  grandfather,  a  Scot  abroad,  at  home 
anywhere.  At  the  battle  of  Seven  Pines,  Major 
Olyphant  was  shot  through  the  heart ;  and  v/hen 
Frederick  was  twenty-one,  a  week  before  he  was 
graduated  at  the  New  England  College,  of  which 
his  great-grandfather  had  been  President,  his 
mother  died  also,  and  he  was  left  alone  in  the 
world  to  fight  his  own  battles  as  a  man  must. 

From  his  father  and  from  his  mother  Fred 
erick  Olyphant  inherited  what  was  once  known 
as"  a  modest  competence;"  in  other  words,  he 
had  a  small,  fixed,  secure  income,  quite  sufficient 


FREDERICK  OL  YPHANT.  5 

to  provide  him  with  bread :  his  butter  he  must 
earn  himself.  This  lifting  above  the  necessity  of 
pot-boilers  and  of  hack-work  is  a  great  boon  to 
an  artist  or  an  author  who  has  the  wish  always 
to  do  his  best.  Olyphant  had  early  determined 
to  be  a  painter ;  and  pictorial  art,  especially  in 
the  beginning,  is  like  literature  in  that  it  is  a  good 
staff  and  a  bad  crutch.  To  Olyphant  his  income 
was  "a  blessing,  for  it  enabled  him  to  study  as  long 
as  he  chose,  not  merely  in  the  schools  of  art, 
but  at  large  among  men.  He  had  been  born 
with  a  certain  adventurous  restlessness  in  his 
blood,  and  he  roamed  over  the  world  seeing  life. 
After  a  hard  winter's  work  in  New  York  he  spent 
a  summer  in  studying  the  Indians  of  the  Pueblos 
in  New  Mexico,  and  in  evolving  a  new  theory  of 
their  descent  from  the  Aztecs  of  Montezuma. 
The  year  after,  he  went  with  the  whaling  fleet  to 
the  North  Pacific.  During  the  war  between 
Russia  and  Turkey  he  pushed  to  the  front  as  the 
special  pictorial  correspondent  of  the  Gotham 
Gazette.  For  three  years  he  did  his  best  at  the 
Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts  in  Paris. 

At  all  times  he  delighted  in  athletic  exercises ; 
he  was  a  mighty  swimmer,  a  skater  of  grace  and 
endurance  and  an  adroit  and  skillful  fencer.  He 
was  a  wonderful  shot  with  the  rifle  and  also  with 
the  revolver  of  his  native  land ;  his  fellow  students, 
in  the  atelier  of  M.  Gerabanel,  still  tell  of  his 
shooting  the  spots  from  the  five  of  spades  with  a 


6  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

revolver,  using  the  sixth  shot  to  drive  in  the  tack 
by  which  the  card  was  affixed  to  the  opposite 
wall  of  the  studio,  a  distance  of  twenty  metres. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  from  this  that  Fred 
erick  Olyphant  was  a  prodigy  in  any  way,  a 
variant  on  the  accepted  type  of  Admirable 
Crichton.  There  were  many  things  which  he 
never  attempted,  although  whatever  he  did, 
he  did  well.  He  had  no  ear  for  music,  for 
example,  and  to  earn  a  king's  ransom  he  could 
not  distinguish  '  Yankee  Doodle '  from  '  God 
save  the  Queen.'  And  he  had  no  taste  for 
science ;  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  had 
picked  up  enough  knowledge  of  figures  to 
master  the  elements  of  navigation. 

Yet  another  marked  defect  in  his  character  was 
his  carelessness  as  to  what  he  wore.  Although  he 
was  an  artist,  he  was  also  a  campaigner,  a  camper- 
out,  and  a  sailor ;  and  he  was  triply  reckless  in 
his  attire.  He  never  knew  what  he  had  on.  He 
was  wholly  free  from  vanity,  and  he  gave  as  little 
thought  as  possible  to  his  clothes  or  to  his 
personal  appearance.  He  went  always  to  a  good 
tailor,  wherever  he  might  be,  and  bought  clothes 
of  the  best  quality :  then  he  put  them  on  and 
wore  them  without  change  until  they  were  worn 
out  It  was  altogether  a  matter  of  chance 
whether  he  was  the  best-dressed  man  in  a  room 
or  the  worst.  He  had  never  quite  understood 
whether  his  friend  Rudolph  Vernon,  the  poet, 


FREDERICK  OL  YPHANT.  J 

was  serious  or  not,  when  he  asked  Frederick's 
opinion  about  a  new  hat,  and  wanted  to  know 
whether  Frederick  thought  the  contour  becoming 
to  the  poet's  head.  It  was  Olyphant's  own  habit 
to  take  the  first  hat  that  fitted  him  comfortably, 
regardless  of  its  shape.  For  months  he  had  been 
wearing  a  black  felt  hat,  very  easy  to  the 
head  but  quite  unpresentable.  Nor  had  this 
carelessness  of  attire  grown  on  Frederick  with 
his  wanderings  ;  he  had  always  had  it;  in  his 
sophomore  year  at  college  a  new-comer,  trying 
to  identify  his  classmates  and  to  learn  their 
names,  referred  to  Olyphant  as  "  the  man 
who  was  better  dressed  than  he  seemed  to 
be."  As  the  painter  walked  up  Fifth  Avenue  in 
the  clear  sunlight  of  an  October  day,  there  was 
no  fault  to  be  found  with  his  clothes,  which  were 
almost  new,  having  been  worn  only  two  weeks. 
Life  is  composed  of  two  parts,  so  the  Arab 
proverb  tells  us,  the  past,  which  is  a  dream,  and 
the  future,  which  is  .a  wish.  As  Frederick 
Olyphant  recalled  the  nearly  thirty  years  of 
life  which  were  his  past,  he  thought  of  this 
proverb.  His  past  had  little  more  of  substance 
than  a  dream.  He  had  seen  much,  he  had  learnt 
much,  he  had  hoped  more, — but  he  had  done  little. 
Now,  at  last,  that  the  future  was  a  wish  indeed, 
he  regretted  that  he  had  not  begun  earlier  and 
that  he  had  not  accomplished  more.  Perhaps  it 
is  hardly  fair  to  expect  that  the  man  with  five 


8  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

talents  shall  get  quite  as  good  interest  on  his 
having  as  the  man  with  but  two :  in  time  and  by 
toil  the  average  man  may  make  cent,  per  cent., 
but  we  must  not  expect  gains  in  this  proportion 
from  the  more  highly  endowed  genius.  Critics 
of  foremost  authority  had  declared  that  genius 
was  scarcely  too  strong  a  word  to  apply  to  what 
they  saw  in  the  last  two  or  three  pictures  which 
Frederick  Olyphant  had  painted.  His  work  was 
imaginative  in  a  high  degree,  though  at  times  it 
might  seem  only  fantastic.  His  fine  allegory 
'  The  End  of  Time  and  Space  '  had  been  hung 
on  the  line  at  the  Royal  Academy  the  spring 
before,  while  at  the  same  time  his  '  Spectre  of 
the  Brocken  '  had  taken  a  second  prize  at  the 
Paris  Salon.  A  German  journalist,  reviewing  the 
annual  exhibitions  of  London  and  Paris,  declared 
that  these  two  pictures  revealed  the  coming  of  a 
new  man,  of  a  new  force  in  art ;  and  that  the 
Old  World  should  take  it  as  a  warning  that  this 
light  broke  from  the  New  World.  But  praise 
like  this  made  Frederick  Olyphant  ashamed  of 
himself;  he  knew  better  than  his  critics  ;  all  that 
he  was  willing  to  acknowledge  to  himself  was 
that  he  had  learnt  the  rudiments  of  his  trade. 
He  knew  how  to  say  whatever  he  had  to  say ; 
but  what  he  might  have  to  express  in  the  future 
depended  wholly  on  the  essential  richness  of  his 
own  nature. 

The  mellow  sunshine,  which  bathed  him  in 


FREDERICK  OL  YPHANT.  o 

molten  gold  at  every  crossing  in  his  quick  march 
to  his  tryst  with  the  woman  he  loved,  was  not 
brighter  than  the  hopes  which  filled  his  heart. 
He  had  youth  and  health  and  friends ;  and  there 
was  nothing  to  which  he  might  not  aspire.  He 
had  the  future  before  him,  and  the  future  is  a 
wish,  said  the  Arab  proverb  ;  and  he  had  already 
attained  the  summit  of  his  desire — for  she  loved 
him.  He  marveled  at  his  good  fortune  and  re 
ceived  it  as  an  omen, — for  he  had  inherited  from 
Scotland  or  from  New  England  a  full  share  of 
intangible  superstition.  Knowing  his  own  un- 
worthiness,  he  wondered  how  it  was  that  she  had 
chosen  him.  He  accepted  her  love  as  the  direct 
gift  of  heaven,  as  inexplicable  as  it  was  precious. 
He  called  up  before  him  her  lovely  image,  and 
he  was  lifted  up  by  high  and  beautiful  thoughts. 
For  her  sake  he  would  work  hard  and  do  his 
best  and  put  behind  him  all  that  was  low  or 
mean  or  paltry. 

As  he  strode  resolutely  up  Murray  Hill,  he 
saw  an  early  evening  star  rising  above  the  hori 
zon  and  seeming  to  lead  him  on,  respondent  to 
the  exalted  hope  which  filled  him.  She  would 
be  his  guiding  star  in  life,  as  pure  and  as  beauti 
ful  as  the  light  which  beamed  faint  and  far  beyond 
him.  He  found  himself  wondering  whether  that 
distant  orb  were  inhabited,  and  whether  any  of 
its  inhabitants  were  one-half  as  happy  as  he. 
Then  his  gaze  dropped,  and  he  took  note  of  the 


I0  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

throng  which  filled  the  avenue.  Men  and 
women  and  children,  on  foot  and  in  carriages, 
going  to  the  Park  and  coming  back  from  their 
business ;  and  as  he  looked  at  them,  they  seemed 
to  be  happy,  most  of  them,  and  to  be  smiling  and 
laughing  and  to  be  at  ease  with  the  world.  But 
there  was  none  of  them  with  whom  he  would 
dream  of  changing  places.  There  were  no  ten 
of  them  whose  combined  felicity  could  equal 
his.  The  world  was  bright  and  the  people  he 
met  were  smiling,  but  no  one  had  as  good  cause 
for  rejoicing  as  he :  and  he  gave  thanks  in  his 
heart. 

Once  at  the  crest  of  Murray  Hill,  Frederick 
Olyphant  slackened  his  pace,  and  again  gazed 
up  at  the  star,  before  he  turned  into  Thirty-sixth 
Street,  where  Mrs.  Sutton  was  at  home,  and 
where  he  knew  he  should  find  Miss  Marshall. 
His  thoughts  were  raised  above  earthly  things 
into  the  glorified  ether  which  lovers  only  may 
inhabit.  So  little  was  he  attending  to  the  men 
and  women  about  him  that  it  was  no  wonder  that 
he  did  not  know  that  he  was  followed,  and  that  a 
man,  a  stranger  probably,  and  from  his  attire 
apparently  a  foreigner,  had  hung  on  his  foot 
steps  ever  since  he  left  his  studio.  This 
strange  follower  kept  fifty  paces  or  so  in  the 
rear  of  the  artist.  As  Olyphant  turned  sharply 
out  of  the  avenue,  the  man  on  his  trail  hastened 
forward  as  though  unwilling  to  let  his  quarry 


FREDERICK  OLYPHANT.  tl 

slip  from  his  sight.  The  stately  house  of  Judge 
Gillespie,  where  his  only  daughter,  Mrs.  Sutton, 
was  to  dispense  tea  that  afternoon,  is  but  a  few 
yards  from  Fifth  Avenue,  and  Frederick  Oly- 
phant  was  mounting  its  broad  steps  before  the 
curious  attendant  who  had  dogged  him  for 
nearly  half  an  hour  reached  the  corner.  The 
young  painter  stood  for  a  moment  before  the 
door,  enjoying  the  glory  of  the  sinking  sun  as 
it  flooded  the  narrow  street  with  its  golden 
radiance.  The  stranger  at  the  corner  of  the 
avenue  fell  back  as  Olyphant,  recalled  to  the 
affairs  of  this  world,  gave  a  hasty  glance  up 
and  down  the  street,  and  then  rang  the  bell; 
he  watched  the  door  open  to  admit  the  guest 
and  then  close  behind  him.  He  walked  slowly 
past  the  house  as  though  questioning  whose 
it  might  be.  Then  he  sat  himself  down  on  a 
doorstep  opposite  and  waited. 


CHAPTER   II. 

MRS.   SUTTON   AT   HOME. 

WHEN  Judge  Gillespie's  daughter  was  at 
boarding-school,  whither  she  had  been 
sent  at  twelve  years  of  age,  shortly  after  her 
mother  died,  Judge  Gillespie's  house  was  as 
comfortable  and  as  commonplace  a  dwelling  as 
one  could  find  anywhere  on  either  side  of  Fifth 
Avenue.  But  when  Judge  Gillespie's  daughter 
came  back  from  boarding-school,  after  having 
finished  her  education,  and  when  she  came  out 
in  society,  a  great  change  was  wrought  in  the 
appearance  of  the  house ;  it  was  swept  and  gar 
nished  and  its  old-fashioned  furniture  was  hidden 
as  far  as  possible  under  new-fangled  draperies. 
And  when  finally,  in  her  second  year  of  society, 
Miss  Gillespie  met  her  fate  in  the  person  of 
Charley  Sutton,  the  only  son  of  Judge  Sutton, 
of  San  Francisco  (who  had  been  the  head  of 
the  great  law-firm  of  Pixley  &  Sutton  ever 
since  the  death  of  Senator  Pixley),  she  made  it 
a  condition  of  her  remaining  in  New  York  that 
she  should  be  allowed  to  do  what  she  pleased 
with  the  house  and  to  spend  just  as  much  money 


MRS.  SUTTON  AT  HOME.  ^ 

in  altering,  redecorating  and  furnishing,  as  she 
saw  fit.  Judge  Gillespie  was  pleased  with  the 
match ;  he  saw  an  eternal  fitness  in  the  mating 
of  a  daughter  of  a  judge  with  the  son  of  a 
judge;  but  he  did  not  want  to  lose  his  only 
child,  and  he  was  prepared  to  grant  her  all  she 
asked  if  in  return  she  would  keep  house  for  him 
as  she  had  ever  since  she  left  school.  It  hap 
pened  that  Mr.  Charles  Sutton  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  remove  to  New  York,  even  before  Miss 
Gillespie  had  accepted  his  hand  and  heart.  His 
sister,  Mrs.  Eliphalet  Duncan,  had  already  mar 
ried  a  New  Yorker,  and  he  was  quite  ready  and 
willing  to  be  received  into  Judge  Gillespie's 
house  as  a  son. 

Mrs.  Sutton  was  a  determined  little  woman,  as 
clever  as  she  was  pretty,  and  having  her  full  share 
of  the  precocious  dignity  which  is  the  distin 
guishing  characteristic  of  a  widower's  only 
daughter.  She  had  taste,  too, — good  taste,  and 
plenty  of  it,  and  of  the  very  latest  variety. 
She  knew  what  she  wanted ;  she  planned  ma 
turely;  and  when  she  went  to  Europe  on  her 
bridal  trip,  she  left  exact  and  elaborate  instruc 
tions  behind  her.  The  workmen  took  possession 
of  Judge  Gillespie's  old  house  and  tore  it  limb 
from  limb.  He  fled  to  Newport,  and  even  took 
an  autumn  trip  to  Colorado.  When  Mrs.  Sutton 
returned  to  New  York  from  her  wedding  tour, 
she  found  a  house  exactly  to  her  taste ;  it  was 


!4  THE  LAST  MEETING, 

the  old  house  no  longer;  it  was  made  over, 
altered,  redecorated,  changed  from  cellar  to  attic  ; 
and  it  was  a  year  before  Judge  Gillespie  felt  at 
home  in  it.  From  the  Beauvais  tapestry  which 
hung  in  the  hall,  and  the  quaint  wrought-iron 
railing  which  protected  the  staircase  of  the 
richest  Californian  redwood,  everything  in  the 
house  was  new  and  modern  and  in  accordance 
with  the  taste  of  to-morrow. 

When  Mrs.  Sutton  was  At  Home  she  stood  to 
receive  her  guests  in  the  front  drawing-room, 
which  she  had  hung  and  decorated  in  exact 
accord  with  her  complexion.  As  she  was  a 
woman  of  much  common  sense  she  had  not  al 
lowed  her  advanced  taste  to  run  wild ;  and  the 
front  drawing-room  looked  less  like  a  section  of 
the  South  Kensington  Museum  or  of  a  Nurem 
berg  curiosity-shop  than  do  many  other  front 
drawing-rooms  in  which  a  wandering  Briton  feels 
like  a  John  Bull  in  a  china-shop.  There  was  an 
abundance  of  rugs,  so  that  unwary  man  need  not 
slip  on  the  treacherously  polished  floor.  There 
were  many  oddly  shaped  chairs  and  sofas  cov 
ered  with  soft  stuffs  whereon  a  man  might  sit  at 
ease.  There  were  silver  lamps  with  silk  shades, 
and  there  were  candles  in  sconces  high  on  the 
walls,  casting  down  a  dim  religious  light  upon 
the  attendant  vestals  who  guarded  the  low  altar 
whereon  the  fire  kept  the  water  boiling  and 
who  were  frequent  in  pouring  libations  of  tea. 


MRS.  SUTTON  A  T  HOME.  I  $ 

Mrs.  Eliphalet  Duncan  sat  before  the  little  bow- 
legged  table  on  which  the  tea-things  stood.  Mrs. 
Sutton  had  another  table  from  which  she  dis 
pensed  cups  of  white-capped  chocolate  and  dishes 
of  many-colored  cakes.  Miss  Pussy  Palmer  and 
Miss  Winifred  Marshall  were  "  receiving  "  with 
Mrs.  Sutton — a  mysterious  function  made  known 
to  the  other  guests  by  the  absence  of  bonnets  from 
the  heads  of  these  two  young  ladies.  Mr.  Lau 
rence  Laughton  was  talking  to  Judge  Gillespie, 
while  his  eyes  followed  Miss  Marshall  as  she 
glided  about  the  room  in  fulfillment  of  her 
duties  as  a  deputy-hostess. 

"  As  I  understand  it,"  the  Judge  was  saying, 
judiciously,  "  the  difference  between  a  Tea  and  a 
Reception  is  solely  a  difference  of  fare — of  pro 
vender,  if  I  may  venture  to  use  the  word." 

"  I  see,"  answered  Laurence  Laughton  ;  "  at  a 
Tea,  you  get  tea  and  cakes,  while  at  a  Reception, 
you  expect  a  square  meal." 

"  Precisely.  And  the  result  is  that  man,  being 
a  worshiper  of  his  stomach,  shuns  Teas,  although 
he  is  sometimes  seen  at  a  Reception." 

"  Well,  I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  Laugh- 
ton.  "  We  are  two  men  here  and  we  feel,  both 
of  us,  I  take  it,  like  a  cat  in  a  strange  garret." 

"  Qu  '  allait-il  faire  dans  cette  garret  ?  "  quoted 
the  Judge,  who  prided  himself  on  his  accent, 
and  who  had  once  adapted  a  play  from  the 
French. 


i6 

"  A  Tea  is  an  excuse  for  gathering  together  a 
lot  of  women,  old  and  young,  so  that  they  can 
admire  each  others'  gowns  to  each  others'  faces," 
remarked  Laughton,  "  and  that  being  the  case,  I 
think  your  daughter  is  to  be  congratulated  on 
the  success  of  her  afternoon." 

"  There  are  quite  a  dozen  ladies  here  at  this 
early  hour  I  think,"  answered  the  Judge,  with 
paternal  pride. 

"  Two  more — I've  been  counting.  And  now 
is  the  Scripture  fulfilled,  which  said  that  seven 
women  shall  lay  hold  of  one  man." 

"  Why,  Uncle  Larry,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  " 
interrupted  Mrs.  Sutton,  with  whom  Laurence 
Laughton  was  a  great  favorite.  He  was  a  young 
man  of  a  little  more  than  forty,  and  he  was  no 
relation  to  her,  but  he  had  willingly  accepted 
her,  and  many  another  pretty  girl,  as  his  niece  by 
brevet. 

"Why,  shouldn't  I  say  so?"  he  answered. 
"  Fourteen  ladies  here  and  two  men  only — your 
father  and  I.  Twice  seven  are  fourteen." 

"  Don't  tell  me  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Sutton,  mer 
rily.  "  I  refuse  to  acknowledge  it  I'm  like 
Mrs.  Martin  there.  I  never  could  learn  the 
multiplication  table — and,  what's  more,  I  don't 
believe  it  is  so ! " 

Laughton  laughed  at  this  declaration  of  femi 
nine  principle. 

"  Have  a  cup  of  chocolate  ?  "  asked  the  hostess. 


MRS.  SUTTON  AT  HOME.  ij 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  but  that  I  will  sit  up 
and  take  a  little  nourishment,"  answered  Uncle 
Larry,  dropping  into  a  low  arm-chair  by  the 
side  of  Mrs.  Sutton,  as  Miss  Winifred  Marshall 
crossed  the  room  to  meet  a  new-comer.  From 
his  new  position  Laughton  was  at  liberty  to  fol 
low  all  Miss  Marshall's  movements.  But  his 
view  was  at  once  cut  off  by  Miss  Pussy  Palmer, 
who  came  and  stood  before  him. 

"  Uncle  Larry,"  said  this  lively  young  lady, 
who  was  most  becomingly  dressed  in  a  silver- 
gray  plush  velvet,  which  fitted  her  lithe  little 
figure  to  perfection,  "  I  want  to  know :  Is 
Frederick  Olyphant  going  to  be  here  this  after 
noon  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  know,  too,"  was  Uncle  Larry's 
guarded  answer. 

"  But  is  he  ?  "  she  persisted,  seating  herself 
on  the  arm  of  a  sofa. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
he  did  come.  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  want  to  see  him  so  badly.  Uncle 
Larry  !  "  ejaculated  Miss  Pussy,  with  mysterious 
vehemence,  "  can  you  keep  a  secret  ?  Well,  I'm 
desperately  in  love  with  Mr.  Olyphant" 

"  You  don't  say  ?  "  asked  Uncle  Larry,  with 
amused  interest;  "  and  does  he  return  your  young 
affections  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.  I'm  not 
serious,  you  know.  But  I  think  he's  just  splendid. 


jg  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

I  only  met  him  for  the  first  time  on  Sunday,  and 
I  think  he's  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw ! 
Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  how  many  handsome 
men  you  have  ever  seen,"  was  Uncle  Larry's 
natural  response. 

"  Now  I  do.  He's  lovely.  He  has  the  most 
beautiful  eyes  you  can  imagine.  Why,  he's  as 
handsome,  in  his  way,  as  Winifred  is  in  hers. 
You  call  her  pretty,  don't  you  ?  "  continued  Miss 
Pussy. 

"No;  I  call  her  beautiful,"  said  Laughton, 
seriously. 

"  That's  what  I  say.  I  think  she's  just  the 
loveliest  girl  I  ever  saw — and  she's  as  good  as 
she  is  pretty !  And  to  think  that  she  is  going 
to  throw  herself  away  on  a  man  !  It's  perfectly 
ridiculous  !  " 

Uncle  Larry,  with  a  certain  tremulousness  of 
voice,  asked,  "  Is  she  engaged  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  she  isn't  engaged,  but  she's  sure  to  be 
some  day,  you  know.  The  men  are  all  after  her 
now,  and  she'll  have  to  take  one  of  them  to  get 
rid  of  the  rest." 

Miss  Palmer  was  not  very  observant,  and 
she  rattled  along  without  noticing  Laughton's 
little  sigh  of  relief.  He  raised  his  hand  to  his 
mouth  and  stroked  and  curled  his  heavy  auburn 
mustache.  His  eyes  crossed  the  room,  as  he 
raised  them  again,  and  rested  on  the  erect  figure 


MRS.  SUTTON  A  T  HOME.  i  g 

of  Miss  Marshall.  She  was  slightly  taller  than 
the  generality  of  women,  but  just  then  she  seemed 
of  an  unusual  height,  for  she  towered  above  a 
little  man  who  had  entered  the  room  a  minute 
or  two  before,  and  who  now  stood  by  her  side, 
rubbing  his  hands  together  in  a  self-deprecatory 
manner. 

"Why,  there's  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley," 
cried  Pussy  Palmer  as  soon  as  she  saw  him. 
"Isn't  he  sweet?  I  just  doat  on  Englishmen 
when  they're  nice.  And  he  isn't  half  bad,  don't 
you  know  ! " 

Uncle  Larry  smiled  at  her  broad  caricature  of 
the  English  accent. 

"  Now,  you  watch,"  she  continued,  "  and  you'll 
see.  He  wants  to  come  over  here  and  talk  to  me. 
He  thinks  I'm  great  fun,  though  I  don't  be 
lieve  he  thinks  I'm  good  form,  don't  you  know  ? 
But  the  Duchess  will  capture  him  from  me, — you 
see  if  she  doesn't.  Sometimes  I  think  the  Duch 
ess  doesn't  quite  approve  of  me."  Miss  Palmer 
said  this  with  an  innocent  expression,  as  though 
wondering  how  it  came  to  pass  that  anybody 
could  fail  to  approve  of  a  brightsome  little  body 
like  herself.  She  was  given  to  accepting  herself 
as  a  kitten,  whose  actions  were  playful,  inconse 
quent,  and  harmless. 

Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,  having  received  a 
cup  of  tea  from  Mrs.  Duncan,  was  slowly  making 
a  way  for  himself  through  a  sudden  throng  of 


20  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

ladies  to  where  Miss  Palmer  sat  on  the  arm  of 
the  sofa.  His  path  led  him  near  a  lady  of  portly 
presence  and  of  a  dignified  manner.  This  was 
Mrs.  Martin,  whom  certain  of  her  younger  friends 
chose  to  call  the  Duchess  of  Washington  Square. 
She  caught  the  Englishman's  eye  as  he  passed, 
and  he  obeyed  her  imperious  glance  and  meekly 
took  a  seat  on  a  stool  by  her  side. 

"  There  now ! "  said  Miss  Palmer  to  Mr. 
Laughton,  "  didn't  I  tell  you  ?  She's  a  regular 
body-snatcher  when  she  gets  a-going.  Of  course, 
/  don't  care,  but  it's  pretty  rough  on  the 
stranger  to  get  taken  in  like  that." 

Uncle  Larry  listened  with  amusement  to  the 
innocent  prattle  of  his  companion.  He  wondered 
how  soon  she  would  experience  a  change  of 
heart,  forswear  slang  and  reform  her  picturesque 
vocabulary.  Just  now  Miss  Pussy  was  a  showy 
little  woman,  rather  pretty  and  very  young, 
wearing  her  bright  bronze  hair  cut  short  like  a 
boy's.  In  another  year  or  two,  thought  the  ex 
perienced  Larry,  her  tip-tilted  nose  will  be  the 
only  reminder  of  her  present  pertness,  and  she 
will  be  as  quiet  and  mild  in  manner  as  an 
American  girl  should  be. 

Miss  Pussy  Palmer  was  the  only  daughter  of 
a  very  wealthy  man  who  had  lately  removed  to 
New  York  from  a  little  town  in  the  interior  of 
Pennsylvania.  Mr.  Palmer  had  once  been  a  bar 
keeper,  if  report  may  be  relied  on,  and  he  had 


MKS.  SUTTON  AT  HOME. 


21 


struck  oil — literally,  not  figuratively.  A  three- 
hundred-barrel  well  had  been  discovered  on  a 
small  farm  he  had  taken  for  a  debt.  After  ex 
hausting  the  enjoyments  of  his  native  town,  and 
after  building  and  endowing  a  free  public  library 
for  its  inhabitants,  Mr.  Palmer  had  felt  the  stir 
rings  of  social  ambition.  As  Mr.  Delancey  Jones 
neatly  put  it,  "  Palmer  formerly  mixed  for  the 
best  men  of  Beanville  and  now  he  wants  to 
mix  with  the  best  men  of  New  York."  In  this 
laudable  desire  he  was  seconded  by  his  only  child, 
who  had  just  been  graduated  from  a  very 
fashionable  school  where  her  lively  humor  and 
her  sweet  temper  had  made  her  a  great  favorite 
with  her  classmates.  When  they  came  out  they 
promised  to  help  her  to  come  out  also.  And 
she  had  come  out  with  a  vengeance,  thought 
Uncle  Larry.  He  wondered  why  it  was  that 
this  rattle-brain  girl,  who  was  kind-hearted 
enough,  but  who  had  scarcely  as  yet  more  than  a 
veneer  of  "  the  manners  and  tone  of  good 
society,"  should  be  an  intimate  friend  of  Wini 
fred  Marshall,  who  was  reserved  and  proud,  and 
whom  most  people  thought  cold  and  haughty. 

"  Doesn't  Winnie  look  lovely  this  afternoon  ?  " 
asked  Pussy,  breaking  in  on  Laughton's  reflec 
tions.  "  I  don't  wonder  she  always  wears  black  ; 
it's  so  becoming  to  her.  And  that  big  yellow 
bow  suits  her  style  down  to  the  ground." 

Laughton  felt  the  justice  of  this  feminine  re' 


22  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

mark.  The  severity  of  the  rich  black  silk  which 
fitted  Miss  Marshall's  beautiful  figure  as  no  dress 
fits  a  woman  whose  lines  are  not  graceful  curves, 
was  relieved  by  one  large  and  several  smaller 
bows  of  a  deep  golden  yellow,  which  accentuated 
boldly  her  ivory  complexion  and  her  dense 
black  hair.  She  wore  a  bunch  of  yellow  roses 
fastened  at  her  waist 

"  She's  got  a  color,  too,  and  that's  always 
becoming  to  her.  Don't  you  think  she  looks  a 
little  restless  ?  " 

"  I  had  not  remarked  it,"  answered  Uncle 
Larry,  considering  Miss  Marshall  even  more  in 
tently  than  before.  Perhaps  she  felt  the  force  of 
his  gaze,  for  she  looked  up  and  smiled  at  him 
brightly. 

"  Of  course,  you  wouldn't  see  anything,"  said 
Miss  Pussy,  "  you're  a  man.  But  I  know  her, 
and  I  guess  she's  getting  tired  of  waiting  for  her 
young  man." 

Laurence  Laughton  found  himself  wishing 
that  the  reform  of  Miss  Palmer's  language  might 
take  place  even  sooner  than  he  had  anticipated. 
"  Her  young  man  ?  "  he  repeated,  coldly. 

"  You  know  whom  I  mean." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not." 

"  Then  you  are  blind — or  else  you  must  be  in 
love  yourself,  Uncle  Larry.  Why,  everybody  has 
seen  how  devoted  Frederick  Olyphant  has  been 
to  her  all  summer.  I  heard  of  it  in  a  dozen 


MRS.  SUTTON  AT  HOME.  2$ 

letters.  Girls  were  writing  to  me  about  it  all  the 
time." 

Laughton  wished  that  girls  had  found  some 
more  profitable  employment  for  their  leisure. 

"  He  just  worships  the  ground  she  walks  on. 
I  don't  suppose  she  cares  for  him,  you  know, 
but  he  can't  keep  his  eyes  off  her.  That's  what 
I'm  told.  And  I'll  punish  him  for  being  late  to 
day — that  is,  if  he  comes  at  all.  I'll  waylay  him, 
and  get  up  a  flirtation  with  him  in  spite  of  his 
teeth.  You  see  if  I  don't !  "  Despite  the  free 
dom  of  her  vocabulary  there  was  no  trace  or 
taint  of  vulgarity  in  Pussy  Palmer's  manner : 
her  brilliant  smile  made  a  man  ready  to  forgive 
linguistic  enormities  greater  than  hers. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  change  of  posi 
tion.  Mrs.  Sutton  called  Miss  Marshall  to  take 
her  place  at  the  chocolate  table.  Once  ensconced 
behind  this  counter,  the  lady  in  charge  could 
serve  only  one  customer  at  a  time,  for  the  little 
table  was  almost  in  a  corner,  and  access  on  one 
side  was  cut  off  by  a  projecting  Japanese  cabinet. 
Scarcely  had  Winifred  taken  her  seat,  before 
Frederick  Olyphant  entered  the  room  by  the 
door  nearly  opposite  to  her.  Their  eyes  met  at 
once,  and  a  smile  lighted  both  faces. 

"  There  he  is  now,"  cried  Pussy  Palmer. 
"  Uncle  Larry,  you  go  and  get  me  a  cup  of 
chocolate  and  a  cake.  I  haven't  had  a  single 
bite  yet,  and  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  cannibal  in 


24  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

Lent."  She  gave  this  order  with  a  child-like 
imperiousness  which  was  one  of  her  most  fasci 
nating  little  ways. 

As  Laurence  Laughton  left  her  to  obey  this 
command,  she  waylaid  Frederick  Olyphant. 
Laughton  noticed  that,  as  Miss  Marshall  was 
preparing  the  cup  of  chocolate,  her  color  height 
ened  and  then  fled,  leaving  her  with  an  unwonted 
paleness.  When  he  returned  to  Miss  Pussy,  he 
found  that  she  had  installed  Olyphant  in  his 
place. 

"  You  must  not  make  me  sit  down  now," 
Olyphant  was  saying ;  "  I  am  famished,  I  want  a 
cup  of  chocolate,  or  I  shall  expire  of  inanition." 

"  You  shall  have  it  at  once,"  responded  the 
lively  Pussy,  taking  the  cup  from  Laurence's 
hand  and  putting  it  in  Olyphant's,  despite  his 
ineffectual  protest.  "  Here's  my  cup.  It's  leap- 
year,  and  so  it  is  a  girl's  privilege  to  wait  on  a 
man.  Uncle  Larry,  will  you  please  get  me 
another  cup  ?  " 

Laughton  smiled  at  the  pitiful  expression  on 
Olyphant's  face,  and  departed  again  on  his  quest. 
He  remarked  a  defiant  excitement  in  Winifred 
Marshall's  manner,  and  lie  caught  a  fierce  gleam 
from  her  large,  black  eyes. 

"  You  are  not  well  this  afternoon,"  he  ven 
tured  to  remark,  with  ill-concealed  interest. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am,"  she  answered,  as  her  tea-rose 
complexion  grew  richer  under  his  gaze. 


MRS.  SUTTON  AT  HOME.  2$ 

"  You  look  excited.  I  think  you  are  feverish," 
he  urged;  "  let  me  take  you  out  of  this  crowd." 

"  Thank  you,  Uncle  Larry,"  she  said,  with  a 
pleasant  laugh,  "  but  I'm  having  too  good  a 
time  here  to  want  to  go  just  yet.  Here's  Pussy's 
second  cup  !  " 

"  It's  her  first  really,  for  she  gave  the  other  to 
Fred,"  explained  Laurence,  inadvertently. 

"  I  did  not  know  he  liked  chocolate,"  said 
Winifred,  quickly.  "  He  told  me  once  that  he 
couldn't  drink  it! " 

"  Perhaps  Miss  Palmer  has  cast  a  spell  over 
him,  and  he  must  perforce  partake  of  the  potion 
she  proffers  him." 

And  after  this  alliterative  speech,  Uncle  Larry 
took  the  second  cup  to  Pussy,  who  was  in  vio 
lent  combat  with  the  painter  on  the  subject  of 
art,  about  which  she,  of  course,  knew  less  than 
nothing,  and  about  which  he  had  deep  convic 
tions. 

"  Uncle  Larry,"  she  cried,  as  Laughton  ap 
proached,  "  you  must  come  to  my  rescue.  I've 
been  telling  Mr.  Olyphant  that  I'm  just  mad 
about  art;  and  yet  he  won't  give  me  any  art 
news." 

Laughton  had  a  keen  recollection  of  a  visit  to 
the  gallery  of  pictures  of  which  Miss  Palmer's 
father  was  the  proud  possessor,  and  he  recalled 
only  two  or  three  works  of  real  value  amid  a 
mob  of  paintings  which  looked  as  though  they 


26  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

might,  in  some  earlier  stage  of  existence,  have 

been  chromos.     He  smiled  gently,  and  asked, 
"  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 
"  I'd  like  to  know  what  he's  painting  now." 
"  I'll  tell   you  that,"   said  Olyphant,  "  if  you 

promise  not  to  ask  any  questions  about  it." 
"  I  promise." 
"  It's  to  be  called  'The  Sharpness  of  Death,'  " 

said  the  painter. 

"  Oh,  I  think  that's  a  horrid  name ! "  cried  Pussy, 

pretending  to  shiver ;  "  can't  you  change  it  ?  " 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

MISS  PALMER  had  relieved  Laurence 
Laughton  of  the  second  cup  of  chocolate, 
and  he  felt  himself  at  liberty  to  pass  on,  abandon 
ing  the  unwilling  Olyphant  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  Pussy.  On  his  way  across  the  room  to  rejoin 
Winifred  Marshall,  he  was  hailed  by  Mrs.  Martin  : 
"  Colonel  Laughton — I  mean,  Mr.  Laughton  !  " 
Laurence  Laughton  had  come  out  of  four  years 
of  hard  righting  in  the  Army  of  the  Potomac 
with  the  title  of  Colonel,  U.  S.  V. — a  title  he 
made  haste  to  lay  aside  as  soon  as  he  was  mus 
tered  out.  He  had  retained  the  erect  bearing  of 
the  soldier,  and  he  had  always  the  gentleness  of 
manner  which  generally  characterizes  the  man 
of  war.  Yet  this  gentleness  failed  to  prevent  his 
annoyance  whenever  his  military  rank  was 
flaunted  in  the  face  of  strangers.  Mrs.  Martin 
knew  this,  but  she  was  a  great  respecter  of  titles, 
and  it  was  hard  to  forbear  the  use  of  his.  She 
seemed  so  sorry  for  this  slip,  however,  that  he 
relaxed  the  frown  with  which  he  had  approached 
her. 

27 


2g  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  here  this  afternoon," 
she  said ;  "  I  thought  you  did  not  condescend  to 
teas." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  do,"  Laughton 
answered. 

"  But  you  must,  or  you  would  not  have  come 
to-day,"  continued  Her  Grace.  "  I  was  saying  to 
Winifred  Marshall,  the  last  time  we  met  you  at  a 
reception,  that  you  were  getting  to  be  quite  a 
society  man." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  do  not  really  deserve  the  compli 
ment,"  he  replied,  with  only  a  dim  suspicion  of  a 
smile  at  the  corner  of  his  lips. 

"  You  know  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,  don't 
you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  Uncle  Larry,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley,  who  was  sitting  by  the  side 
of  the  Duchess.  "  There  is  a  club  called  The 
Full  Score,  and  we  are  all  going  to  dine  at 
Uncle  Larry's  house  to-night." 

"  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,"  said  Mrs.  Mar 
tin,  "  seems  to  take  an  interest  in  Miss  Palmer — " 

"  Such  a  lively  girl ! "  interrupted  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley. 

"  But  she  is  not  good  style,"  said  Mrs.  Martin, 
as  though  passing  sentence. 

Laurence  Laughton  joined  Winifred  Marshall 
again,  and  lost  the  rest  of  the  conversation  between 
the  Duchess  and  her  English  friend.  Perhaps  it 
was  as  well  that  he  did  not  hear  it. 


DUCHESS  OF  WASHINGTON  SQUARE.       29 

Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  was  a  nice  little 
man,  with  a  pair  of  little  mutton-chop  whiskers, 
and  a  little  trick  of  rubbing  his  hands  together 
gently.  He  had  a  very  quiet  manner  and  a  very 
deep  voice,  which  seemed  wholly  out  of  place  in 
the  mouth  of  such  an  unassuming  little  fellow. 
He  was  the  younger  son  of  a  younger  son  of  an 
English  peer.  The  title  was  old  and  the  head  of 
the  house  was  poor.  He  had  to  support  himself 
as  best  he  could  ;  he  was  an  artist,  not  without 
talent ;  he  was  a  critic,  with  much  minute  know 
ledge  of  obscure  points  in  the  history  of  art ;  he 
was  a  poet,  in  his  leisure  moments ;  he  had 
written  a  novel  or  two ;  and  he  had  had  a  classi 
cal  play  damned.  There  was  a  rumor  that  he 
had  once  contributed  to  the  Saturday  Review  a 
social  essay  on  the  '  Idiosyncrasies  of  Ratiocina 
tion  ' :  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  had  once 
written  to  the  Times,  for  the  letter  was  extant :  it 
was  a  protest  against  the  conduct  of  a  policeman 
at  Charing  Cross.  He  had  lately  inherited  a  small 
but  sufficient  income  from  an  aunt  whom  he  had 
never  seen.  In  his  politics  he  was  an  advanced 
radical ;  and,  although  delighted  with  America, 
he  deprecated  the  spirit  of  conservatism,  which 
he  declared  to  be  the  chief  characteristic  of  the 
United  States.  It  was  understood  that  he  was 
at  work  on  a  volume  of  '  Notes  on  America ' ; 
and  he  had  lectured  before  the  Nineteenth  Cen 
tury  Club  on  the  '  British  Peerage.' 


30  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

Naturally  the  Duchess  took  a  great  fancy  to  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley  and  piloted  him  through 
the  shallows  of  New  York  society.  She  had  a 
broad  tolerance  for  all  political  heresies ;  it  was 
only  lapses  from  the  conventionalities  of  polite 
society  that  she  visited  with  swift  and  fatal 
punishment.  Mrs.  Martin  was  known  to  her 
familiars  as  the  Duchess  of  Washington  Square, 
because  she  was  as  prominent  in  society  as 
might  be  the  most  exalted  peeress  in  her  own 
right,  and  because  she  dwelt  in  Washington 
Square,  which  has  now  regained  the  fashion  it 
had  lost  for  a  score  of  years.  She  had  a  majesty 
of  demeanor  and  an  amplitude  of  raiment  which 
was  wont  to  strike  awe  into  the  breasts  of  all 
beholders  ;  but  she  was  ever  gracious,  as  became 
a  lady  whose  social  superiority  did  not  need  to 
be  asserted  ;  and  to  an  Englishman,  the  younger 
son  of  a  younger  son  of  a  peer,  she  was 
doubly  gracious,  as  became  a  lady  who  had 
once  lived  in  Philadelphia,  and  whose  great 
grandfather  had  been  a  Tory  during  the  Revolu 
tion.  She  was  very  hospitable ;  she  was  an 
admirable  hostess  ;  and  her  Sunday  evenings  in 
Lent  were  delightful  gatherings.  It  is  true  that 
purists  had  declared  the  company  "  rather 
mixed  "  ;  and  when  Uncle  Larry  once  vouched 
for  a  lady  on  the  ground  that  he  had  met  her 
at  Mrs.  Martin's,  Delancey  Jones  said,  scornfully, 
"You  might  as  well  say  you  had  met  her  in 


DUCHESS  OF  WASHINGTON  SQUARE.       31 

Central  Park."  It  was  Delancey  Jones,  too, 
who,  in  allusion  to  Mrs.  Martin's  fondness  for 
bringing  out  new  people,  had  wickedly  called 
her  a  "  social  incubator  " — a  gibe  for  which  the 
kind-hearted  Duchess  had  not  readily  forgiven 
him,  although  she  had  been  accustomed  formerly 
to  refer  to  him  as  "  Dear  Jones." 

"  Miss  Pussy  Palmer  is  not  as  beautiful  as 
Miss  Marshall,"  said  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley 
to  the  Duchess  after  Uncle  Larry  had  left  them  ; 
"pas  tout  a  fait,  but  she  is  a  most  fascinating 
little  woman." 

"  I  trust  you  will  not  allow  her  to  fascinate 
you,"  remarked  the  Duchess,  with  dignity. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  But  she  is  a  type  ;  I  like  to 
study  her.  She's  so  different  to  our  English 
girls,  you  know." 

"  She  is  very  different  from  most  American 
girls,  I  am  happy  to  believe.  Look  at  Winifred 
now :  see  her  perfect  manners." 

"  I'm  delighted  to  look  at  Miss  Marshall,  I'm 
sure.  She  is  by  way  of  being  a  very  handsome 
girl,"  retorted  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,  "but 
she  doesn't  look  happy,  and  Miss  Palmer  is  so 
very  jolly,  don't  you  know." 

"  So  you  do  not  think  that  Winifred  is  happy  ?  " 
asked  the  Duchess. 

"  I  knew  she  was  not  happy  directly  I  saw 
her,"  declared  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,  with 
more  perspicuity  than  the  Duchess  had  credited 


32  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

him  with.  Keener  observers  than  the  jolly  little 
Englishman  had  seen  traces  of  a  permanent  sor 
row  in  Winifred  Marshall's  usually  sad  expres 
sion.  It  was  rarely  that  her  eyes  lighted  or  that 
her  countenance  glowed  with  pleasure,  although 
she  had  been  known  not  unfrequently  to  affect  a 
gaiety  as  boisterous  as  was  possible  to  so  re 
served  a  nature.  When  she  was  off  her  guard 
and  the  set  smile  faded  from  her  lips  and  her 
features  could  be  seen  in  betraying  repose,  even 
a  dull  man  might  mark  the  veil  of  haunting 
melancholy  which  clouded  her  face.  As  the 
Duchess  and  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  looked 
at  her  across  the  room,  they  saw  her  glance 
about  with  an  air  of  bold  defiance,  at  variance 
with  her  usual  gentle  demeanor.  She  had  just 
given  Uncle  Larry  a  cup  of  chocolate,  heaped 
high  with  frothing  cream,  and,  as  he  stirred  it  in 
silence  for  a  moment,  she  was  surveying  the  still 
thronging  guests.  Although  she  forebore  reso 
lutely  to  look  long  in  that  direction,  her  eyes  kept 
returning,  involuntarily  to  the  sofa  where  Fred 
erick  Olyphant  sat  by  the  side  of  Pussy  Palmer. 

"  She's  a  stunning  fine  girl !  "  said  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley  ;  "  it's  an  awful  pity  she  shouldn't 
be  happy." 

"  She  has  a  noble  character,  and  she  has  led  a 
sad  life,"  responded  Mrs.  Martin. 

"  Dear  me  ;  you  don't  say  so  ?  "  queried  the 
Englishman  ;  "  has  she  had  a  cruel  step-mother  ?  " 


DUCHESS  OF  WASHINGTON  SQUARE.       33 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?  "  asked  the  Duch 
ess,  in  surprise. 

"  I  didn't  know  it  at  all.  I  guessed  it,  you 
know.  We  Britishers  can  guess  sometimes,  like 
you  Yankees  do." 

"  If  you  have  never  heard  her  story,  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  tell  you — " 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,  I'm  sure." 

"  Because,"  continued  Mrs.  Martin,  speaking 
out  of  the  fullness  of  years  of  social  experience, 
"if  you  do  not  know  it,  you  might  accidentally 
make  some  awkward  allusion  to  it  and — " 

"  And  that  would  be  very  unpleasant  indeed," 
assented  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,  who  had  a 
slight  difficulty  in  pronouncing  the  letter  R ;  he 
did  not  flatten  it  into  W  as  do  some  of  his  country 
men,  nor  could  he  give  it  any  roll  at  all.  In  gen 
eral  he  avoided  the  difficulty  by  omitting  the 
troublesome  consonant.  In  the  present  instance 
what  he  really  said  was  that  it  "  would  be  ve'y 
unpleasant  indeed." 

But  the  ear  of  the  Duchess  of  Washington 
Square  was  not  attuned  to  the  seizing  of 
orthoepic  subtleties,  and  if  in  no  others,  in  matters 
of  pronunciation  at  least  she  accepted  the  will 
for  the  deed. 

"  It  is  not  a  very  easy  story  to  tell.     However, 

I'll  do  it  as  well  as  I  can,  if  I  can  only  remember 

all  the  names."     Here  the  worthy  Mrs.  Martin 

did  herself  injustice,  for  upon  all  points  of  descent 

3 


34 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


and  intermarriage  her  memory  was  unimpeach 
able.  She  knew  and  remembered  the  exact  date 
of  everybody's  birth — although  she  kept  her 
own  carefully  concealed — and  she  could  give 
you  the  exact  date  of  everybody's  death.  Dear 
Jones  had  said  once  that  the  Duchess  had  a 
"  tombstone  memory." 

"  I  have  lent  you  my  ears,"  said  the  attentive 
little  Englishman. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  begin  at  the  very  beginning. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  Captain  Thaxter  Ran 
dolph  ?  " 

"  Wasn't  he  a  traveler  or  some  fellow  of  that 
sort  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley. 

"  That's  the  man.  He  was  an  Arctic  explorer. 
At  least  he  was  an  army  officer.  I  can  remember 
when  he  was  a  professor  at  West  Point ; "  and 
here  a  vague  smile  flitted  across  Mrs.  Martin's 
face  as  though  she  had  recalled  a  tender  memory. 
"  And,  of  course,  he  went  with  his  State.  When 
the  war  broke  out  he  was  a  Virginian,  you  know, 
one  of  the  real  old  Randolphs.  So  when  the 
war  was  over  he  had  nothing  to  do.  He  did  not 
care  to  go  to  Egypt  or  to  Brazil,  as  so  many  of 
the  best  people  in  the  South  did.  He  got  his 
friends  together  and  they  raised  the  money  for 
an  expedition  to  discover  the  open  polar  sea." 

"  I  remember  now,"  said  Mr.  Hobson-Chol 
mondeley  ;  "  very  interesting,  I'm  sure." 

"  During    the    war,   Captain    Randolph   had 


DUCHESS  OF  WASHINGTON  SQUARE.       35 

married  Miss  Winifred  Southgate,  who  had  been 
ordered  out  of  Washington  and  sent  through 
the  lines,  because  she  \vas  a  rebel  spy  and  was 
constantly  sending  news  to  the  enemy.  She 
used  to  flirt  with  the  Union  officers  in  the  most 
outrageous  way,  and  sometimes  they  would  let 
out  a  military  secret  or  two,  and  she  would  send 
this  valuable  information  at  once  to  the  rebel 
chiefs." 

"  Clever  girl,"  remarked  the  listener. 

"  But  not  at  all  the  sort  of  woman  you  would 
like  to  marry." 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !  "  was  the  quick  response. 

"  Once  in  Richmond,"  continued  the  Duchess, 
"  Miss  Southgate  flirted  with  the  Rebel  officers  just 
as  she  had  flirted  with  the  Union  officers  in 
Washington." 

"  She  didn't  play  spy  on  both  sides,  did  she  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley.  "  That  would 
be  a  mean  trick." 

"  Oh,  no.  She  was  too  good  a  rebel  to  do 
that.  With  the  Southern  officer  she  flirted  and 
carried  on  because  she  liked  it.  And  one  day 
Thaxter  Randolph  married  her." 

"  Poor  chap,"  remarked  the  Englishman,  with 
kindly  feeling  for  a  fellow-man  in  trouble. 

"  I  suppose  she  fascinated  him.  They  say  she 
was  very  pretty,  and  the  men  were  always  after 
her.  I  remember  hearing  Judge  Gillespie  once 
describe  her  as  '  a  tall,  handsome  woman  with 


36  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

an  aggressive  bust  and  a  deficiency  in  her  code 
of  defensive  morality.' " 

"  Very  clever,  indeed,"  laughed  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley  ;  "  brings  the  woman  before  you 
at  once — like  a  picture.  Apropos,  I  wish  it  would 
bring  her  before  us.  I  think  I  should  like  to  see 
her." 

"  If  you  will  only  be  patient,  I  will  tell  you 
what  became  of  her — all  in  good  time,"  said  the 
Duchess,  with  a  slight  severity  of  tone,  for  she 
did  not  like  interruptions  when  she  was  engaged 
in  a  narrative. 

" Mille  pardons"  promptly  apologized  the 
interrupter. 

Mrs.  Martin  graciously  resumed  : 

"  Thaxter  Randolph  had  married  Winifred 
Southgate,  in  1863,  and  he  had  time  to  find  her 
out  by  1865  ;  and  sometimes  I  have  been  in 
clined  to  suspect  that  one  reason  why  he  went 
up  to  the  North  Pole  was  to  get  away  from  his 
wife.  She  had  wealthy  relatives  here  in  New 
York,  and  he  left  her  with  them ;  and  scarcely 
was  his  ship  out  of  sight  of  Sandy  Hook  before 
she  began  flirting  again.  The  man  she  saw 
most  of  was  Hildreth  Marshall,  the  famous 
architect,  you  know.  He  was  no  fit  company 
for  any  married  woman — certainly  not  in  those 
days.  He  had  studied  in  Paris  for  years,  and  I 
suppose  it  was  there  that  he  had  learnt  all  his 
wickedness.  When  he  first  came  back  he  had 


DUCHESS  OF  WASHINGTON  SQUARE.       37 

so  bad  a  reputation  that  all  the  women  wanted 
to  ask  him  to  dinner  just  to  see  if  he  was  as 
wicked  as  people  said.  He  was  a  handsome 
man,  and  he  had  delightful  manners.  When  he 
first  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Randolph 
he  was  building  the  Church  of  Saint  Mary 
Magdalen,  you  know,  in  Twenty-seventh  Street, 
— the  one  with  the  lovely  stained  glass  windows, 
illustrating  the  text,  '  Let  him  who  is  without 
sin  amongst  you  cast  the  first  stone.'  They 
say  that  when  he  went  up  in  the  morning  to 
oversee  the  work,  he  was  sure  to  find  Mrs.  Ran 
dolph  walking  down  as  he  was  walking  up,  and 
that  they  met  in  this  way  almost  every  day. 
That  was  the  winter  when  Captain  Randolph 
was  locked  in  the  ice  near  Cape  Despair." 

"  It  was  '  a  cold  day '  for  Captain  Randolph, 
as  you  say  here,"  remarked  Mr.  Hobson-Chol- 
mondeley,  with  a  smile  which  betrayed  his  con 
sciousness  of  having  said  a  good  thing. 

"  You  must  have  picked  up  that  slang  from 
Pussy  Palmer,"  retorted  Mrs.  Martin. 

"  Is  it  slang  ? "  answered  the  Englishman, 
innocently;  "  I  thought  it  was  an  Americanism." 

"  Before  Captain  Randolph  returned  to  civili 
zation,  late  the  next  summer,  Mr.  Marshall  had 
gone  to  France.  But  somebody  must  have  told 
the  Captain  the  gossip  about  his  wife,  for  one  day 
in  September,  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  he  left  his 
house  and  went  to  a  hotel  and  blew  his  brains  out." 


3g  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  was  the  listener's  sole  tribute  to 
this  tragic  reminiscence. 

"  In  a  few  weeks  Mrs.  Randolph  sailed  for 
Europe.  People  said  she  had  gone  to  meet 
Hildreth  Marshall,  but  it  happened  that  he 
returned  to  New  York  ten  days  or  two  weeks 
after  her  departure.  In  her  hurry  to  remove 
herself  away  from  New  York  with  its  painful 
associations — and  they  must  have  been  painful 
even  to  her — she  left  her  little  child  behind  her." 

"  Did  she  have  a  child,  then  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley,  in  astonishment. 

"Winifred  over  there,  in  front  of  you;  the 
Winifred,  now  called  Miss  Marshall,  is  the  only 
daughter  of  Mrs.  Randolph,"  answered  the 
Duchess,  enjoying  his  surprise. 

"  Then  I  do  not  wonder  she  is  not  happy, 
But—" 

"  Listen,  and  you  shall  hear  all.  When  Hil 
dreth  Marshall  learnt  that  Captain  Randolph  had 
committed  suicide  and  that  Mrs.  Randolph  had 
gone  to  Europe,  leaving  the  baby  Winifred 
behind,  he  sought  the  child  out  and  took  a  great 
fancy  to  it.  When  Mrs.  Randolph  died  he 
adopted  Winifred." 

"  I  was  wondering  how  it  was  her  name  was 
Marshall.  And  so  Mrs.  Randolph  is  dead  ?  " 

"  Her  end  was  almost  as  terrible  as  her  hus 
band's.  She  lived  in  Paris  until  the  siege,  in 
volved  in  all  sorts  of  intrigues,  political  and 


DUCHESS  OF  WASHINGTON  SQUARE.       39 

personal.  She  had  a  great  liking  for  politics, 
and  she  was  always  scheming  and  plotting. 
During  the  siege  of  Paris,  while  the  French 
government  was  at  Bordeaux,  she  came  over  here 
on  some  sort  of  a  secret  mission.  She  was  a  very 
pretty  woman  then  ;  but  she  was  not  received  at 
all,  although  the  men  gave  her  dinners  at  Del- 
monico's.  Hildreth  Marshall  avoided  her,  and 
went  out  West  for  two  months  to  be  out  of  her 
reach.  She  petted  Winifred,  with  a  great  show 
of  affection,  and  she  dressed  her  up  in  the  latest 
French  fashions.  Then,  suddenly,  without 
notice,  she  went  away  again,  as  unexpectedly 
as  she  had  come.  She  had  taken  the  steamer 
Ville  de  Nice  for  Bordeaux,  where  her  political 
friends  were,  but  she  never  arrived.  The  Ville 
de  Nice  was  caught  in  a  great  gale  in  the  Bay  of 
Biscay  and  sprang  a  leak.  They  had  to  run  the 
ship  ashore  and  to  land  in  the  small  boats. 
The  surf,  which  was  very  high,  upset  the  boat 
Mrs.  Randolph  was  in.  All  the  other  passengers 
were  saved ;  but  Mrs.  Randolph  sank  to  the  bot 
tom  at  once,  dragged  down  by  the  weight  of 
twenty  thousand  dollars  in  gold  which  she  had 
concealed  about  her." 

"  That  is  an  odd  way  to  die,"  commented  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley.  "  There's  a  Frenchman's 
book  about  '  Les  Morts  Bizarres,'  you  know,  but 
there  isn't  anything  even  in  that  queerer  than 
your  story.  Did  they  ever  get  the  gold  ?  " 


40  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  When  the  storm  went  down,  they  found  the 
body  with  the  gold  on  it" 

"  How  very  singular  !  " 

"  As  soon  as  the  mother  was  out  of  the  way, 
Hildreth  Marshall  adopted  Winifred.  I  have 
heard  that  Mrs.  Randolph  left  the  child  to  him 
by  will.  He  was  devoted  to  Winifred,  and  no 
father  could  have  been  fonder ;  and  she  wor 
shiped  him.  She  had  never  really  had  a  mother 
to  love  her,  and,  of  course,  she  could  not  help 
loving  Hildreth  Marshall.  He  was  ready  to 
make  any  sacrifice  for  her.  Judge  Gillespie  says 
that  Marshall  would  not  have  married  at  all, 
except  to  give  his  adopted  daughter  the  benefit 
of  his  wife's  care." 

"  Dangerous  experiment,  I  fancy,"  ventured 
the  Englishman. 

"  It  was  a  very  dangerous  experiment,  indeed, 
and  it  turned  out  very  badly,  as  it  happened. 
Mrs.  Marshall  never  liked  Winifred,  and  although 
she  did  not  actually  ill-treat  her,  the  child  was 
never  happy.  I  used  to  have  the  poor  little 
thing  at  my  house  as  often  as  I  could,  but  her 
step-mother  hated  to  let  her  come  to  me.  I 
suppose  she  was  afraid  that  Winifred  might 
complain ;  but  she  never  said  a  word :  she  was 
staunch  and  loyal  and  kept  her  sorrows  to  herself. 
I  think  it  was  the  knowledge  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake  which  saddened  Hildreth  Marshall's 
death-bed.  He  left  Winifred  half  his  fortune  and 


DUCHESS  OF  WASHINGTON  SQUARE.       ^ 

he  appointed  Judge  Gillespie  her  guardian.  He 
died  only  two  years  ago — so  Winifred  has  not 
gone  into  society  at  all  until  this  year.  I  believe 
Mrs.  Sutton  is  going  to  give  her  a  Delmonico 
ball  just  before  Lent." 

Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  scarcely  heard 
these  last  sentences.  He  was  looking  at  Miss 
Winifred  Marshall,  with  kindly  interest  in  his 
eyes.  Then  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Martin,  and 
asked : 

"  Do  you  suppose  she  knows  the  whole 
wretched  story,  as  you  have  told  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,  sincerely,"  answered  the  Duchess. 
"  She  has  had  enough  sadness  and  sorrow  with 
out  that.  She  has  lost  her  mother  and  her 
father;  she  has  had  an  adopted  step-mother  to 
tyrannize  over  her  ;  and  her  childhood  and  youth 
have  been  far  from  happy." 

"  I  suppose,  now,  that  all  these  things  affect 
her  chances?  "  asked  the  English  visitor. 

"  Her  chances  ?  "  queried  the  Duchess,  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Of  getting  married,  don't  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Martin,  "  I  think  not ;  Wini 
fred  has  a  great  many  admirers.  There's  Mr. 
Olyphant,  the  artist,  and  Colonel  Laughton — 
he's  not  very  young,  perhaps,  but  it  would  be  an 
excellent  match." 

While  Mrs.  Martin  and  Mr.  Hobson-Chol 
mondeley  were  talking  about  her,  Miss  Winifred 


42  THE  LAST  MEE  TING. 

Marshall  arose  from  the  little  seat  behind  the 
chocolate-table  and  left  the  room,  smiling  at 
them  pleasantly  as  she  passed  their  corner  near 
the  door.  For  a  few  minutes  already  the  throng 
of  ladies  had  begun  to  lessen,  and  there  were 
signs  of  an  early  ending  of  the  social  ceremony. 

"  I  must  be  going ;  really  I  must ! "  said  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley,  holding  out  his  hand  to 
the  Duchess,  and  giving  hers  a  hearty  shake. 
"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  very  pleasant  after 
noon,  and  I  shall  try  to  remember  the  interesting 
tales  you  have  told  me." 

Then  he  made  his  way  to  Mrs.  Sutton,  who 
was  now  presiding  over  the  tea-table. 

"  Can't  I  have  another  cup  of  tea  ?  "  he  asked, 
plaintively,  rubbing  his  hands  together  gently. 

"  Why,  certainly,"  answered  Mrs.  Sutton,  pre 
paring  the  beverage.  "  It's  so  kind  of  you  to 
like  it,  though  it  is  genuine  English  breakfast 
tea." 

In  England,  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  had 
never  heard  of  "  English  breakfast  tea,"  and  he 
wondered  what  it  might  be,  not  knowing  that  it 
was  an  American  invention.  Although  he  was 
not  gifted  with  even  a  man's  small  share  of  tact, 
he  did  not  express  his  wonder.  Instead,  he  pro 
duced  a  little  speech,  which  had  served  him 
before.  He  took  the  cup  which  Mrs.  Sutton 
handed  him,  and  he  sipped  a  little,  and  said : 

"  Delicious,  simply  delicious.     Your  tea,  Mrs. 


DUCHESS  OF  WASHINGTON  SQUARE.       43 

Sutton,  is  like  the  waters  of  the  fountain  of  Trevi, 
in  Rome,  you  know,  because  when  a  fellow  has 
once  tasted  it,  he  is  bound  to  return  again  for 
some  more." 

"  Qui  a  bu,  boira"  remarked  Judge  Gillespie, 
who  was  standing  just  behind  his  daughter. 

Before  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  could  cap 
the  Judge's  quotation,  he  was  seized  by  Miss 
Pussy  Palmer,  who  had  been  doing  her  best  to 
get  up  a  mild  flirtation  with  Frederick  Olyphant, 
but  who  abandoned  the  painter  the  instant  that 
the  pleasant  little  Englishman  escaped  from  the 
Duchess. 


CHAPTER   IV. 
IN  THE  "LOVER'S  RETREAT." 

JUDGE  GILLESPIE  was  an  easy-going  man, 
moving  through  life  along  the  line  of  least 
resistance ;  for  the  sake  of  peace,  he  had 
allowed  his  daughter  to  do  whatever  she  pleased, 
when  once  he  had  consented  to  her  reconstruc 
tion  of  his  comfortable  house.  There  was  only 
one  relic  of  the  earlier  state  of  the  house  which 
he  strove  to  save.  This  was  a  verandah,  in  the 
rear  of  the  dining-room,  and  overlooking  the 
spacious  grass  plot  which  extended  behind  the 
house  to  the  next  street.  On  this  verandah,  in 
the  pleasant  mornings  and  evenings  of  spring 
and  fall,  the  Judge  liked  to  smoke  his  cigar  while 
he  read  the  newspaper.  But  his  daughter  was 
remorseless,  and  in  the  reconstruction  of  the 
house,  the  verandah  had  made  way  for  a  retreat 
of  her  own  devising,  a  compromise  between  a 
bay-window  and  a  conservatory.  This  extension 
beyond  the  dining-room  was  rather  too  large  to 
be  called  a  bay-window,  and  it  was  decidedly 
too  small  to  be  dignified  with  the  name  of  a  con 
servatory.  It  was  a  very  pretty  little  greenery, 
44 


IN  THE  «LO VER'S  RE TREA T." 


45 


and,  although  its  glass  and  iron  afforded  few 
architectural  opportunities,  Mrs.  Sutton  had  con 
trived  to  give  it  a  Japanese  effect,  by  the  use  of 
a  hanging  lantern  or  two,  and  a  few  transparent 
shades  of  Japanese  manufacture,  and  by  the 
moulding  and  painting  of  the  slight  iron  uprights 
in  imitation  of  the  bamboo.  As  Dear  Jones 
had  said  when  Mrs.  Sutton  rashly  asked  his 
opinion,  it  was  quite  as  Japanese  as  any  one 
could  expect — in  New  York  ;  and  it  harmonized 
so  well  with  the  dining-room, — which  was  fitted 
with  a  mantel  and  wainscoting  of  solid  English 
oak,  the  spoil  of  an  Elizabethan  manor-house. 
Mrs.  Sutton  may  have  seen  the  latent  sarcasm 
in  Dear  Jones's  praise ;  but  it  did  not  lessen  her 
liking  for  the  Bower,  as  she  called  it,  and  she 
closed  her  eyes  resolutely  to  any  insufficiency 
or  incongruity.  The  Bower  had  a  southern 
exposure,  and  even  in  mid-winter  it  was  arrayed 
with  plants  in  full  bloom.  From  the  dining-room 
it  was  divided  only  by  the  delicate  tracery  of  a 
teak-wood  screen,  the  involute  interstices  of 
which  were  veiled  and  obscured  by  the  polished 
leaves  of  a  luxuriant  ivy,  twining  to  the  ceiling 
and  almost  masking  the  narrow  entrance.  This 
natural  screen,  thus  beautifully  parting  the 
Bower  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  made  it  a 
favorite  resort  of  those  of  Mrs.  Sutton's  young 
friends  who  had  tender  confidences  to  exchange. 
Uncle  Larry  had  called  it  one  day  the  "  Lover's 


46  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

Retreat " ;  and  he  declared  that  three  of  the 
most  important  engagements  of  the  season  had 
been  made  within  its  shallow  recesses. 

When  Miss  Pussy  Palmer  released  Mr.  Fred 
erick  Olyphant,  he  looked  about  the  drawing- 
room  to  find  Winifred  Marshall,  but  she  was  not 
visible.  The  guests  were  thinning  out  rapidly, 
and  locomotion  was  no  longer  difficult.  He 
passed  through  the  music-room  into  the  dining- 
room  but  she  was  not  there.  He  wondered  if 
she  could  have  gone  to  her  room  without  giving 
him  a  chance  to  speak  with  her.  He  did  not 
think  she  could  be  so  cruel,  as  she  knew  he  had 
come  to  Mrs.  Button's  tea  only  that  he  might 
have  a  few  words  with  her.  He  had  walked  the 
length  of  the  house  without  finding  her,  until  he 
stood  before  the  screen,  which  parted  the  dining- 
room  from  the  Bower.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
stride,  he  brushed  through  the  pendent  ends  of 
ivy  and  stood  beside  the  woman  he  loved. 

"  Winifred ! " 

"  Fred ! " 

There  was  a  slight  suggestion  of  coldness  in 
her  greeting,  contrasting  sharply  with  the 
warmth  of  his. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  to  my  rescue,"  he 
asked,  "  and  release  me  from  that  chatterbox  ?  " 

Winifred  moved  slightly,  so  that  he  had  to  take 
away  the  arm  he  had  thrown  around  her  waist 
as  he  kissed  her  when  he  entered  the  Bower. 


IN  THE  "LOVER'S  RETREATS 


47 


"  I  thought  you  were  enjoying  your  conversa 
tion  with  the  chatterbox,  as  you  call  her." 

"A  chatterbox  she  is  !  "  said  Frederick. 

"  She  is  a  friend  of  mine,  remember,"  replied 
Winifred.  "And  she  is  a  very  pretty  girl,  too — 
I've  heard  you  say  so.  And  you  have  called  her 
amusing;  so  I  never  thought  of  interrupting 
you." 

"  Winifred  !  "  said  Olyphant,  gravely. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  answered,  with  slight  petulance. 

"  You  are  not  jealous,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Jealous  ? — Of  Pussy  ?  No,  indeed !  "  she  re 
plied,  indignantly. 

"  What  else  am  I  to  think  ?  " 

"  You  may  think  what  you  please,  but  you 
have  no  right  to  make  such  absurd  accusations. 
Jealous,  why,  Fred,  I  am  astonished  at  you  !  " 

"  Come,  Winifred,  we  must  not  quarrel,  I — I 
should  never  forgive  myself  if  I  said  an  unkind 
word  to  you  !  " 

"  Then  why  do  you  do  it  ?  " 

"Did  I?" 

"  You  did." 

"  Then  won't  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should." 

"  But  you  will,  dear,  won't  you  ?  "  he  urged. 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  her  hesitating  answer. 

"  Yes,  you  do.  You  know  you  are  going  to 
forgive  me, — why  should  I  have  to  persuade 
you  ?  " 


48 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"  But  I  like  to  be  persuaded,"  and  she  smiled. 

He  kissed  her  again. 

"  Then  I  am  forgiven  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Just  this  once,"  she  replied,  "  but  you  must 
never  do  it  again." 

Fred  laughed  lightly.  "  I  do  not  know  now 
what  it  is  I  have  done,"  he  said,  "  but  I  promise 
never  to  do  it  again." 

"  Now,  tell  me  what  Pussy  was  talking  about 
to  you  all  that  time." 

"I  was  talking  about  you,"  answered  Fred. 
"  I  really  don't  know  what  she  was  talking 
about." 

"  Perhaps  she  was  satisfied  to  look  at  you.  I 
heard  her  say  once  that  you  were  the  handsomest 
man  she  had  ever  seen." 

"I'm  sorry  I  cannot  return  the  compliment. 
She's  a  pretty  girl,  of  course,  but — " 

"  So  ;  you  confess  it  ?  "  cried  Winifred,  archly. 

"  I  can't  help  seeing  it.  She's  pretty  enough 
as  girls  go — " 

"  As  girls  go  !  hear  him  !  "  said  Winifred,  laugh 
ing,  with  a  slight  undercurrent  of  excitement;  "  I 
cannot  allow  my  sex  to  be  spoken  of  disrespect 
fully,  even  by  you." 

"  If  they  were  all  like  you,  Winifred,  I  could 
not  help  being  respectful  to  them  all,"  answered 
her  lover,  earnestly. 

"  Well,  Pussy  is  pretty  enough  as  girls  go ; 
now,  go  on !  " 


IN  THE  " LO  VER'S  RE TREA T. " 


49 


"  But  how  can  I  think  of  her,"  he  asked, 
"  when  I  have  seen  you  !  " 

"  Fred ! " 

"  I  hope  I  have  taste  enough,"  continued  the 
artist,  with  feeling,  "  not  to  confuse  merely  trivial 
prettiness  with  a  royal  beauty  like  yours." 

A  rich  blush  mantled  Winifred's  cheek  as  he 
fixed  his  ardent  eyes  on  hers.  She  hesitated. 
"  You  do  not,"  she  said,  "  you  do  not  really 
think  I'm  pretty  ?  "  And  she  gave  him  a  little 
side-glance  as  enchanting  as  possible. 

"  Look  through  my  eyes  into  my  heart,"  was 
his  answer,  "  and  you  will  contradict  yourself!  " 

"  Then  you  do  love  me  a  little  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Love  you  ?  I  cannot  do  anything  else.  Have 
I  not  told  you  so  a  hundred  times  ?" 

"  Perhaps — but  I  like  to  hear  it  again." 

"  And  it  delights  me  to  repeat  it,"  said  the 
lover.  ^  "  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul. 
It  is  happiness  to  be  with  you,  to  see  you,  to 
think  of  you.  Why,  Winifred,  you  are  more 
to  me  than  all  the  world — more  than  this  world 
and  the  next !  " 

"  Hush,  Fred  ;  you  must  not  say  that !  " 

"  But  I  have  said  it,  and  I  mean  it ! " 

"  I  would  rather  you  did  not  mean  it,"  she 
said,  gently  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm.  We 
must  try  and  help  one  another  to  do  our  duty  in 
this  world  that  we  may  deserve  the  next." 

"  Winifred,  you  are  my  Providence,  my  fortune, 
4 


ijO  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

my  fate  !  "  He  lifted  her  hand  from  his  arm  and 
kissed  it.  As  he  lowered  it  from  his  lips,  his 
eyes  fell  on  the  ring  on  hef  finger.  His  expres 
sion  changed  and  a  cloud  passed  over  his  face. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  ring  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  was  my  mother's — indeed,  it  is  almost  the 
only  relic  of  her  I  have." 

"  How  is  it  that  I  have  never  seen  it  before  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  locked  up  in  the  Judge's  safe  for 
the  summer,  and  I  got  it  out  only  this  morning. 
It  is  an  unusually  fine  opal,  and  my  mother  had 
it  on  when  she  died,"  said  Winifred,  with  a  soft 
ening  voice. 

"  That  is  a  sad  memory  to  have  attached  to  an 
unlucky  stone,"  remarked  Olyphant. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  the  opal's  bringing  bad 
luck  ?  Are  you  superstitious  ?  "  she  asked,  in 
wonder. 

"  Have  you  just  found  out  that  fault  of  mine?  " 
he  queried  in  return.  "  I  must  confess  I  am 
half  inclined  to  believe  in  amulets  and  in  omens. 
You  know  I  am  a  mystic  and  I  have  traveled 
in  the  East,  where  it  is  sacrilege  to  doubt  signs 
and  wonders." 

She  had  taken  the  ring  from  her  finger  and 
held  it  in  her  hand  doubtfully.  "  It  seems 
impossible  that  anything  as  beautiful  as  this 
should  bring  ill-fortune." 

He  gazed  at  the  ring  for  a  moment,  as  though 
peering  with  a  subtler  insight  into  its  mysterious 


IN  THE  "LO  VER 'S  RE TREA T."  5  r 

heart.     "  Does  not  its  iridescence,"  he  asked  at 
last, "  remind  you  of  the  dying  embers  of  hope  ?  " 

"  How  strangely  you  said  that !  "  murmured 
Winifred  ;  "  I  believe  you  really  are  superstitious 
and  you  half  convert  me." 

"  Let  me  wear  the  ring  for  you,"  he  said,  sud 
denly. 

"  And  give  you  my  bad  luck  ?  "  she  answered, 
clenching  her  hand  lest  he  might  take  the  stone. 

"  From  you  to  me  nothing  is  of  ill  omen.  I 
can  take  the  bad  luck  away  from  you,  but  it  will 
not  bring  me  any  ill-fortune.  Let  me  have  it," 
and  he  took  her  unwilling  hand. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  wear  a  ring  of  mine, 
Fred,  but  not  this  one." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because — because  it  is  an  opal." 

"  But  this  opal  is  the  ring  of  yours  I  want ;  I 
shall  be  satisfied  with  no  other,  and,  if  you  must 
know,  I  need  a  ring  to  wear  now,  for  I  cannot 
find  my  cat's-eye." 

"  Isn't  it  very  unlucky  to  lose  a  cat's-eye  ?  " 
she  asked,  with  a  little  hesitation. 
.  "  So  they  say,"  was  his  answer.     "  But  if  so, 
the  loss  has  done  its  evil  work  for  to-day,  I 
trust,  and  the  bad  spirit  is  exorcised." 

"  Have  you  had  bad  news  to-day  ? "  she 
queried  at  once,  with  sudden  interest. 

"  Give  me  the  ring  and  I  will  tell  you." 

She  allowed  him  to  open  her  hand  and  to 


ij  2  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

take  the  opal  which  he  put  on  the  little  finger  of 
his  left  hand.  Then  he  kissed  her  palm  where 
the  ring  had  lain,  and  he  said  : 

".  The  bad  luck  I  have  had  to-day  is  passed,  I 
hope.  It  was  to  be  kept  from  you  for  an  hour 
by  a  chatterbox.  Isn't  that  the  worst  fate  which 
can  befall  me,  now  I  know  that  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Fred  !  " 

"  Couldn't  you  see  I  wanted  to  be  by  your 
side?"  he  continued. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  come  ?  "  she  retorted, 
archly. 

"  How  could  I  get  away  ?  I  was  in  the  toils 
of  the  chatterbox." 

"  Remember  that  she  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  Then  I  wish  your  friends  all  knew  that  we 
were  engaged.  When  I  got  away  from  Pussy 
Palmer,  I  was  in  mortal  fear  lest  the  Duchess 
might  seize  me." 

"  She's  a  dear  old  lady." 

"  If  she  had  kept  me  from  you  for  another 
hour,  I  should  have  been  ready  to  denounce 
her  as  a  worldly  and  self-seeking  old  woman." 

"  She  has  been  a  kind  friend  to  me,  Fred." 

"  Then  I  will  forgive  her  all  she  may  say 
about  me  in  the  future.  And  it  is  not  her  fault 
if  she  detains  me.  She  doesn't  know  that  I 
belong  to  you." 

"  Nobody  knows  it." 

"  Why  should  not  everybody  know  it  ?    I'd 


IN  THE  "LO  VER '  S  RE  TREA  TV 


53 


like  to  cry  it  aloud  from  the  house-top,  I'm  so 
proud  of  you  !  " 

A  sudden  sensitiveness  sent  its  tremor  through 
Winifred.  "  But  I  do  not  want  to  be  cried 
aloud  from  the  house-top ;  my  love  for  you  is 
the  tenderest  secret  of  my  heart.  I  shrink  from 
having  it  talked  over  at  clubs  and  street-corners." 

"  Why  should  you  care  about  idle  gossip  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  I  am  over-sensitive,  I  suppose,"  she  said, 
with  a  little  shiver  of  disgust. 

"  It  is  six  weeks  since  you  let  me  tell  you  that 
I  loved  you,  and  in  these  six  short  weeks  I  have 
had  only  stolen  meetings  with  you,  as  though 
in  my  love  for  you  there  was  something  to  be 
ashamed  of;  and  yet  you  know  that  nothing  in 
the  future,  no  success  in  life,  no  honors,  no 
glory,  can  ever  make  me  proud  if  I  am  not  proud 
now,  because  you  love  me  !  " 

Winifred  said  nothing;  she  looked  at  him 
with  love  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  fear  I  am  fanciful,"  she  said,  with  some  lit 
tle  excitement  in  her  manner.  "  I  cannot  bear 
-to  share  the  secret  of  my  love  with  any  one  and 
every  one.  As  long  as  we  alone  know  it,  we 
belong  to  each  other  and  the  world  is  none  the 
wiser." 

"  But  unless  you  want  to  have  a  secret  mar 
riage  after  a  secret  engagement,  people  must 
know  it,  sooner  or  later,"  persisted  Frederick. 


54 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"  I  have  told  you  what  I  think  of  a  fashionable 
wedding  in  New  York,"  she  answered,  vehem 
ently.  "  I  think  it  is  disgusting.  On  the  most 
important  day  of  my  life,  I  don't  want  to  be  a 
staring-stock  for  everybody.  Sooner  than  be 
married  at  Grace  Church  with  six  bridesmaids, 
eight  ushers,  little  girls  strewing  flowers  and  the 
wedding  march  from  '  Lohengrin,'  I  believe  I'd 
elope !  I  think  I  would  rather  be  married  by 
the  mayor,  or  even  by  an  alderman.  I  could  not 
make  such  a  degrading  show  of  myself.  I 
should  feel  as  though  they  were  selling  tickets 
at  the  door !  "  And  Winifred  ended  this  reck 
less  speech  with  a  sharp  satiric  laugh  which 
betrayed  not  a  little  nervous  strain. 

"  Surely,  you  will  not  ask  me  to  consent  to  a 
private  marriage  ?  "  questioned  Frederick. 

"A  private  wedding  is  just  what  I  want,"  she 
answered. 

"  But  not  a  secret  wedding?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  people  must  know  some  day,  I  sup 
pose.  But  there  is  no  need  to  make  a  spectacle 
of  ourselves  when  we  get  married,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  want  a  few  friends  to  be  present  ?  " 

"  I  have  very  few  friends,  indeed.  I  could  fill 
a  house  with  my  acquaintances  and  I  can  take 
all  my  friends  out  driving  in  one  carriage.  There 
are  not  a  dozen  persons  I  care  to  have  invited  to 
the  wedding.  And  I  don't  see  why  anything  need 
be  said  about  the  engagement  until — until — " 


IN  THE  "LO VER'S  RE TREA T.' 


55 


"  Until  we  know  when  we  are  to  be  married," 
added  Frederick,  coming  to  her  rescue.  "  Have 
it  as  you  please,  my  darling.  Your  will  is  law 
to  me.  I  will  keep  my  tongue  tied  and  say 
nothing." 

"  It  is  best  to  let  the  engagement  be  a  secret  yet 
a  while,"  she  went  on.  "  Perhaps  we  are  not 
sure  of  one  another.  How  do  I  know  you  will 
not  tire  of  me  ?  " 

"  Winifred  !  "  cried  Frederick,  with  ardor,  as  he 
threw  his  arm  about  her  and  turned  her  face  up 
to  his. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  gazing  up  into  his  eyes,  with 
confidence,  as  though  satisfied  on  that  score. 
"  How  do  you  know  I  haven't  made  a  mistake 
in  trying  to  love  you  ?  " 

"  Do  not  torture  me,"  he  said,  gently,  yet  firmly. 
"  We  must  not  trifle  with  our  love ;  it  is  too 
sacred  to  jest  with,  if  it  is  too  sacred  to  be  talked 
about.  And  if  you  have  told  nobody  of  our  en 
gagement,  I  will  tell  nobody  until  you  bid  me." 

"  I  have  told  nobody  at  all — that  is  to  say — 
well,  I  have  told  nobody — "  and  here  Winifred 
paused  in  momentary  confusion. 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  I  know  I  ought  not  to  have  done  it,  Fred, 
but  I  did.  I  was  writing  to  Baby  Van  Renssel- 
laer,  you  know — she  married  Delancey  Jones  last 
spring.  She  was  really  a  friend  of  mine,  and 
she  is  away  on  her  wedding  trip,  and  so  I 


56  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

thought  she  would  understand  me,  and  I  let  it 
slip  out." 

"  You  wrote  her  that  we  were  engaged  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  was  it  very  wrong  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  wrong  at  all,"  answered  Freder 
ick,  with  a  suspicion  of  coldness  in  his  voice ; 
"  you  are  at  liberty  to  tell  whom  you  please." 

"  But  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  even  her,"  cried 
Winifred,  impetuously. 

"  But  you  did  tell  her." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  if  I  wanted  ?  "  asked  Wini 
fred,  with  a  return  of  her  earlier  excitement. 
"  You  just  said  I  could  tell  whom  I  pleased." 

"Certainly,"  answered  Fred.  "  The  matter  is 
not  worth  talking  about." 

"Then  why  do  you  keep  on  talking  about  it?" 

If  Frederick  Olyphant  had  let  the  question 
drop  then  and  there,  he  would  have  spared  him 
self  many  hours  of  self-reproach.  But  he  could 
not  let  it  rest.  He  was  logical,  masculine,  and 
persistent.  So  he  went  on  : 

"  Because  I  wondered  why  you  would  not  let 
me  tell  Uncle  Larry,  if  you  meant  to  tell  Mrs. 
Jones  ?  " 

"  But  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  her  at  all !  "  re 
plied  Winifred,  with  equal  persistence.  "  It 
slipped  out  by  accident.  You  can  tell  Uncle  Larry, 
if  you  like, — you  can  take  as  many  men  into 
your  confidence  as  you  please  !  " 

"  You  must  not  speak  sharply  to  me,  Wini- 


IN  THE  "LOVER'S  RETREAT: 


57 


fred,"  he  said,  gently,  suppressing  his  feeling. 
"  I  am  wrong,  of  course.  Whatever  you  do  is 
right." 

She  drew  herself  up  with  dignity,  and  asked 
him,  in  a  voice  which  trembled  in  spite  of  her 
efforts  to  control  it,  "  Do  you  think  it  is  manly  to 
vent  your  sarcasm  on  the  woman  you  pretend  to 
love  ?  " 

"  Pretend  to  love  ?  "  cried  Fred,  forgetting 
himself.  "  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you 
^doubt  my  love  for  you  ?  " 

"  If  you  loved  me,  you  would  not  treat  me  in 
this  outrageous  way  !  " 

Frederick  Olyphant  was  a  just  man ;  he  was 
just  to  himself  as  to  others,  and  he  could  not 
listen  to  this  charge  calmly. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  relieve  you  of  the  in 
sult  of  my  presence  ?  "  he  asked,  fiercely. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  !  "  she  replied,  mastered  by 
the  excitement  which  had  been  gaining  on  her 
all  the  afternoon.  "  And  perhaps  you  had  bet 
ter  refrain  from  calling  again  ! "  she  added,  as  he 
moved  toward  the  door  of  the  Bower. 

"  Winifred  !  "  he  cried,  in  a  last  appeal,  as  he 
stood  with  hand  on  the  ivy-clad  screen. 

"  Mr.  Olyphant,"  was  her  icy  retort.  They 
stood  for  a  moment  facing  each  other  in  silence. 
Before  either  of  them  spoke  again,  Mrs.  Sutton 
came  into  the  dining-room  and  discovered  them. 

"  Why,  is  that  you,  Mr.  Olyphant  ?  "  she  cried. 


t; 8  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  with  what  composure  he 
could  muster ;  "  Miss  Marshall  and  I  have  been 
having  a  chat  here  in  the  Bower." 

"  It's  a  lovely  spot  for  a  quiet  flirtation,  isn't 
it?"  said  Mrs.  Sutton,  as  he  withdrew  from  the 
door  in  the  screen  to  allow  her  to  enter  the 
Bower. 

He  waited  a  few  seconds,  hoping  for  a  kind 
word  from  Winifred.  But  she  stood  silent  and 
haughty.  He  turned  to  go  at  last. 

"Won't  you  stay  to  dinner  with  us?"  asked 
Mrs.  Sutton.  "  The  Judge  is  always  glad  of  a 
chance  to  chat  with  you, — and  if  he  has  to  go 
out  early,  Winifred  and  I  will  try  to  amuse  you." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  an  engagement,"  was 
his  answer,  "  or  I  would  remain  with  pleasure. 
As  it  is,  I  fear  I  have  trespassed  here  too  long. 
I  have  to  thank  you  for  my  afternoon." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  amused  yourself," 
said  Mrs.  Sutton,  graciously  ;  and  then,  without  a 
word  from  Winifred,  Olyphant  left  the  house. 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  story  of  lovers'  quarrels 
need  ever  be  told,  for  it  is  a  miserable  story,  at 
best.  Winifred  Marshall  and  Frederick  Olyphant 
loved  each  other  with  the  deep  passion  of  strong 
and  noble  natures ;  they  had  been  betrothed  for 
six  weeks  ;  and  this  was  the  first  time  they  had 
not  found  themselves  of  one  mind.  It  was  their 
first  misunderstanding,  and  it  turned  on  a  trifle  that 
neither  of  them  could  declare  with  exactness. 


IN  THE  "LO VER'S  RE TREA T.' 


59 


Each  felt  a  sense  of  injustice  and  injury;  and  each 
was  sustained  by  false  pride.  Perhaps  if  Mrs. 
Sutton  had  not  intervened  when  she  did,  just  as 
Olyphant  was  about  to  go,  he  might  have  stayed 
his  feet  or  Winifred  might  have  recalled  him. 
But  it  was  not  to  be.  Theirs  was  a  true  love, 
and  its  course  was  not  smooth.  They  quarreled, 
as  lovers  will ;  they  parted,  as  lovers  before 
them  have  done  a  many  times ;  and  the  pain  and 
smart  of  the  parting  were  bitter  and  hard  to 
bear. 

It  was  about  the  edge  of  dusk  when  Frederick 
Olyphant  left  Mrs.  Button's  and  walked  hastily  to 
Fifth  Avenue,  with  his  head  high  in  the  air  and 
a  keen  pang  in  his  heart.  The  sun  had  set  and 
a  dim  haze  clouded  the  streets.  The  afternoon 
had  been  bright  and  joyous,  but  the  evening  was 
gray  and  dreary.  When  Olyphant  arrived  at  the 
corner  of  Fifth  Avenue,  he  gave  no  thought  to 
the  star  he  had  hailed  as  he  ascended  Murray  Hill, 
and  he  cast  no  glance  behind  him  ;  he  turned 
sharply  and  strode  down  the  avenue  at  a  sturdy 
pace.  Had  any  one  been  trying  to  follow,  he 
must  needs  have  moved  briskly. 

But  as  Frederick  Olyphant  left  Winifred  Mar 
shall  farther  and  farther  behind  him  his  pace 
slackened  and  his  stride  relaxed.  He  walked 
on  in  deep  thought,  with  his  head  down  and  his 
hands  behind  him.  He  felt  as  though  the  light 

o  o 

had  gone  out  of  his  life.     The  streets,  which  had 


6O  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

been  gay  as  he  passed  them  on  his  way  to  meet 
her,  seemed  now,  as  he  came  back  from  seeing 
her,  dull  and  dismal.  Even  the  people  had 
changed  in  their  manner  toward  him  ;  before  he 
had  remarked  the  many  fine-looking  men  and 
the  crowds  of  smiling  pretty  girls  ;  now  he  saw 
only  withered  old  hags  and  ungainly  ruffians, 
who  scowled  as  he  strode  by  them.  As  he  crossed 
Madison  Square,  there  was  a  chill  sprinkle  of 
rain,  and  he  wondered  why  he  should  feel  the 
cold  keenly,  after  the  hardening  of  two  campaigns 
with  the  Russian  troops.  And  so,  with  changing 
thoughts  and  an  aching  heart,  he  plodded  on  his 
dismal  way,  until  at  last  he  rang  the  bell  at 
Laurence  Laughton's  door. 

At  that  moment  Winifred  Marshall  had  locked 
herself  in  her  own  room,  after  sending  word  that 
she  had  too  severe  a  headache  to  sit  at  dinner. 
She  lay  on  her  bed,  weeping  hot  tears  of  self- 
reproach. 


M: 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   FULL  SCORE. 

R.  LAURENCE  LAUGHTON  was  a  uni 
versal  favorite,  especially  with  dumb  animals, 
with  little  children  and  with  young  ladies.  He 
could  not  always  at  once  recognize  every  pretty 
girl  who  greeted  him  as  "  Uncle  Larry."  He  was 
a  young  man  of  a  little  more  than  forty  years  of 
age,  a  young  man  still,  for  all  his  two-score  years 
and  more.  No  one  had  ever  ventured  to  call 
him  old  or  even  to  think  of  him  as  elderly,  for  he 
always  felt  young  and  mingled  with  young  people ; 
and  he  thought  of  himself  always  as  young,  and 
while  a  woman  is  as  old  as  she  looks,  a  man  is 
as  old  as  he  feels.  There  was  as  yet  no  suspicion 
of  baldness  on  his  head,  thickly  covered  with 
rich  auburn  hair,  with  a  graceful  tendency  to 
curl.  There  was  no  hint  of  grey  as  yet  in  the 
long  tawny  mustache  which  drooped  over  his 
lip.  His  bearing  was  always  erect  and  military. 
He  was  not  an  ill-favored  man,  even  if  one  did 
not  regard  the  intelligence  and  the  kindliness 
which  shone  from  his  face. 

61 


62  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

Larry  Laughton  was  a  man  of  varied  accom 
plishments  ;  he  told  a  story  excellently,  with  an 
abundance  of  dry  and  unaffected  humor ;  he 
played  a  fairly  good  game  of  billiards  ;  he  rode 
as  became  a  colonel  of  cavalry  ;  and  Miss  Pussy 
Palmer  had  been  heard  to  declare  that  he  danced 
divinely,  although  when  he  was  enticed  to  a  ball 
he  was  more  likely  than  not  to  sit  out  the  cotil 
lion  in  a  quiet  corner  with  a  clever  woman.  He 
was  the  sole  executor  of  a  wealthy  aunt,  and  the 
management  of  this  estate  gave  him  sufficient 
occupation  and  a  sufficient  income  for  his  modest 
wants.  He  was  fond  of  traveling,  and  he  ran 
across  the  ocean  nearly  every  summer,  ready  for 
a  trip  to  Spain  or  to  Sweden,  and  yet  content  to 
dwell  quietly  in  London,  where  he  had  number 
less  friends.  During  the  Russo-Turkish  war  he 
had  spent  several  months  in  the  field  with 
Frederick  Olyphant,  going  afterward  through 
the  Holy  Land  and  up  the  Nile,  taking  notes  by 
the  way.  These  impressions  he  had  been 
persuaded  to  publish  and  his  '  Myrrh,  Aloes  and 
Cassia/  aided  by  Olyphant's  illustrations,  had 
been  one  of  the  milder  successes  of  the  year  in 
which  they  were  published.  He  owned  his 
house  in  New  York  in  Fifth  Avenue,  not  far 
from  Union  Square ;  and  he  kept  it  open  for  his 
friends.  And  of  friends  he  had  a  many.  As 
Frederick  Olyphant  once  said,  "  Uncle  Larry  had 
a  gift  for  friendship."  He  was  prompt  with  a 


THE  FULL  SCORE.  63 

kind  word  for  all  strugglers  ;  and  during  the  past 
twenty  years  many  a  young  author  and  artist 
had  found  in  Larry  an  uncle  who  did  not 
demand  security  for  what  he  might  lend.  He 
had  a  faculty  of  divining  silent  grief;  and  in 
ministering  to  it  his  touch  was  as  delicate  as  his 
insight  was  keen.  He  was  a  man  to  whom  his 
friends  turned  for  consolation  whenever  trouble 
fell  on  them.  He  was  a  man,  also,  without 
whom  no  festivity  was  complete. 

It  was  Laughton  who  had  suggested  the 
founding  of  The  Full  Score,  a  little  club  which 
was  to  dine  with  him  on  the  evening  of  the  day 
when  Mrs.  Sutton  gave  her  tea.  Half-a-dozen 
of  his  friends  happening  to  be  returning  to  New 
York  on  the  same  ocean-steamer  one  September, 
he  had  proposed  that  they  form  a  dining-club  to 
be  limited  to  twenty  and  to  dine  together  three 
times  a  year, — in  the  fall  and  in  the  spring  in 
New  York,  and  in  the  early  summer  in  London. 
Like  Larry  himself,  most  of  the  members  of  The 
Full  Score  were  unattached  bachelors,  artists, 
authors,  actors  and  musicians,  almost  as  frequent 
in  their  visits  to  London  during  the  season  as 
he  was.  Although  all  the  members  were  Ameri 
cans,  except  the  latest,  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon- 
deley,  some  of  them  were  sure  to  be  in  London 
every  year,  enough  of  them,  in  fact,  to  make  a 
dinner-party  exceeding  the  canonical  limit  of 
nine.  The  name  of  the  club,  The  Full  Score, 


64 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


indicated  the  extent  of  its  membership  and  con 
tained  a  suggestion  also  of  its  artistic  charac 
teristics.  It  was  now  four  or  five  years  old,  and 
its  three  dinners  a  year  had  been  partaken  of 
regularly  with  an  abundance  of  good-talk  and  a 
strengthening  of  the  bonds  of  good-fellowship. 
In  London  the  club  dined  about  here  and  there, 
trying  one  restaurant  after  another,  from  Green 
wich  to  Richmond.  In  New  York  The  Full 
Score  were  always  the  guests  of  Laurence  Laugh- 
ton,  who  gave  them  two  dinners  a  year,  one 
toward  the  end  of  October,  the  other  about  the 
beginning  of  April. 

As  Frederick  Olyphant  walked  straight  from 
Mrs.  Sutton's,  he  was  the  first  arrival  at  Uncle 
Larry's.  He  was  as  familiar  in  the  house  as 
though  he  were  a  younger  brother  of  its  owner — 
and  rarely  indeed  does  a  closer  and  a  deeper 
friendship  unite  two  men  than  that  which  bound 
together  Laurence  Laughton  and  Frederick 
Olyphant :  they  had  faced  death  side  by  side. 
Therefore,  when  the  door  was  opened  by  the 
faithful  Bridget,  who  had  been  in  Uncle  Larry's 
employ  for  fifteen  years  and  more,  Fred  passed 
her  with  a  smile  and  a  query  as  to  where  Mr. 
Laughton  might  be  found. 

"  He's  been  home  this  half-hour,  sir,  and  he's 
in  his  room  now." 

Olyphant  hung  up  his  hat  in  the  hall ;  and  he 
went  up  stairs,  where  he  was  received  with  much 


THE  FULL  SCORE.  65 

pantomimic  enthusiasm  by  Bundle  o'  Rags, 
Laughton's  favorite  little  terrier. 

"  You  are  the  first  to  come,"  said  Uncle  Larry, 
as  Olyphant  entered  the  dressing-room  where 
the  host  was  vigorously  brushing  his  hair. 
"  Have  a  cocktail  while  we  are  waiting  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  a  drink  now,"  answered  his 
friend,  in  a  spiritless  voice  ;  "  and  I  doubt  if  I  can 
do  honor  to  your  dinner." 

"  What  has  made  you  so  down-in-the-mouth  ?  " 
asked  Larry,  turning  sharply  around  and  looking 
at  Olyphant  with  interest. 

"  I'm  good-for-nothing  to-night ;  dull  and  mis 
erable." 

"  You  are  not  ill,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  sick  at  heart ;  don't  question  me  about 
the  reason,  for  I  mustn't  tell  you.  And  I  have 
an  oppression  in  my  head,  too." 

"  In  your  head? — there's  nothing  in  that,  you 
know,"  said  Larry,  encouragingly, — "  if  there  is 
not  anything  else." 

"  There's  really  nothing  more,  I  suppose ;  and 
yet  I  feel,  somehow,  as  though  something  was 
going  to  happen ;  I  feel  much  as  I  felt  in  Plevna 
when  you  nursed  me  through  that  attack." 

".Well,  I  don't  know  that  you  have  any  call 
to  have  another  of  those  attacks  now,"  said 
Uncle  Larry,  cheerfully.  "  Brace  up,  man,  and 
don't  borrow  trouble ;  most  anybody  will  lend 
it  to  you  quick  enough,  but  you  have  to  pay 
5 


66  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

such  heavy  interest  on  the  loan  that  it's  not  a 
profitable  transaction." 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right !  Don't  worry  about  me." 
And  Olyphant  made  a  resolute  effort  to  shake 
off  the  gloom  which  had  enfolded  him.  "  What 
time  is  the  dinner  ?  " 

"  Seven,  as  usual."1 

"And  how  many  are  there  to  be  ?  " 

"Fourteen  this  time  —  unless  Dear  Jones 
manages  to  get  here." 

"  Is  he  back  ?  "  asked  Olyphant. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Larry.  "  The  City  of 
Constantinople  arrived  about  noon,  and  they  were 
to  come  on  her." 

"  Then  he'll  be  here,  of  course." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry ;  "  when 
a  man  arrives  home  from  his  wedding-trip  he  is 
not  very  likely  to  leave  his  bride  and  come  to  a 
stag  dinner." 

"  Do  you  think  Mrs.  Delancey  Jones  would 
object,  then?  " 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  I  hardly  expect  him.  In 
time  I  suppose  we  shall  all  be  tied  to  some  pretty 
woman's  apron  strings — you  and  I  and  all  of  us." 

Olyphant  gave  Larry  a  sharp  look  to  see  if 
there  was  any  ulterior  significance  in  these 
words. 

"  When  The  Full  Score  were  organized  as  a 
club,  we  were  all  bachelors,  and  now  the  girls  are 
carrying  us  into  camp  every  year.  Charley 


THE  FULL  SCORE. 


67 


Sutton  and  Eliphalet  Duncan  and  Rudolph 
Vernon  and  Dear  Jones,  one  after  another,  have 
joined  the  married  majority." 

"  Friend  after  friend  departs,"  quoted  Fred, 
with  an  effort  at  cheerfulness. 

"  But  they  come  back  after  a  while,"  retorted 
Larry,  "  and  knock  at  the  gate  again."  Just  then 
there  was  a  ring  at  the  door.  "  There's  one  of 
them,  now — the  married  men  are  always  the  first 
to  come.  Even  if  Dear  Jones  fails  us,  we  can 
count  on  all  the  rest  of  them." 

"  And  there's  Poor  Bob  White, — he  is  sure  to 
be  here — and  he  was  the  first  of  us  to  get 
married,"  remarked  Fred,  with  a  sudden  recur 
rence  of  his  melancholy,  humorously  heightened 
by  the  lugubrious  strains  of  a  hand-organ  just 
under  the  window. 

Larry  Laughton  put  on  his  coat  and  they  went 
down  to  greet  the  arriving  guests.  In  the  hall 
they  met  Rudolph  Vernon,  the  poet,  and  his 
intimate  friend,  J.  Warren  Payn,  the  young  com 
poser.  Rudolph  Vernon  was  always  precise  in 
his  attire ;  there  was  no  touch  of  poetic  frenzy  in 
his  garb ;  he  had  been  heard  to  say  that  he 
"  didn't  see  why  a  poet  shouldn't  dress  like  a  gen 
tleman."  He  had  brought  back  from  Paris  a 
long  blue-black,  cloak-overcoat,  buttoning  high 
in  the  throat,  draped  with  an  ample  cape,  mak 
ing  him  look,  as  Larry  said  promptly,  "  like  a 
younger  son  of  one  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers." 


68  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

Mr.  J.  Warren  Payn,  who  had  set  to  music 
several  of  Vernon's  songs,  was  the  organist  of 
two  Episcopalian  churches,  for  one  of  which  he 
composed  a  full  choral  service  every  Easter ;  his 
spare  time  he  spent  on  the  score  of  a  comic  opera, 
of  which  he  had  high  hopes,  and  fragments  of 
which  were  frequently  sung  for  him  by  the  obliging 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  his  church  choir. 

"  Well,  Payn,"  asked  Uncle  Larry  ;  "  how  are 
you  getting  on  with  '  Montezuma'  ?  "  The  com 
poser's  friend  knew  that  '  Montezuma '  was  the 
title  of  the  comic  opera. 

"First  rate!  "  answered  the  composer.  "  I  have 
finished  scoring  the  second  act  and  I  have  just 
had  a  capital  idea  for  a  topical  song  in  the  third — 
good  for  four  encores  every  night." 

There  came  another  ring  at  the  bell,  and  Mr. 
Charles  Sutton  and  his  brother-in-law,  Mr. 
Eliphalet  Duncan,  arrived  together.  They  were 
followed  shortly  by  Mr.  Robert  White,  who 
wrote  for  the  Gotham  Gazette  under  the  name  of 
'  Poor  Bob  White.'  Then  came  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley,  rubbing  his  hands  together 
gently. 

"  I'm  not  late,  am  I  ?  "  he  asked,  in  his  deep 
voice.  "  I  should  be  so  sorry  to  have  kept  you 
waiting." 

In  a  few  minutes  Laughton's  rooms  began  to 
fill  up.  As  is  often  the  case  in  bachelors'  houses, 
the  front  parlor,  devoid  of  feminine  attraction,  was 


THE  FULL  SCORE.  69 

abandoned,  and  the  men  clustered  naturally  in 
the  more  masculine  library.  Uncle  Larry's  house 
was  three  rooms  deep;  the  parlor  fronted  the 
avenue,  the  dining-room  was  in  the  rear,  and  the 
library  with  its  huge  folding-doors  connected  the 
two.  Like  most  middle  rooms  in  New  York 
houses,  the  library  had  no  windows;  and  in  the 
daytime  it  received  its  light  wholly  from  the  dining- 
room  on  one  side  and  from  the  parlor  on  the  other. 
But  at  night,  lamps  over  against  the  mirror,  and  a 
bright  fire  of  crackling  hickory,  made  it  as  warm 
and  pleasant  a  retreat  as  one  could  wish  in 
winter.  The  two  longer  walls  of  the  library  were 
lined  with  bookcases,  broken  on  one  side  by  the 
fire-place,  a  structural  part  of  the  book-case  it 
divided;  On  the  other  side,  in  one  of  the  sec 
tions  of  the  book-case,  was  a  little  door,  concealed 
by  a  curtain  and  leading  into  the  hall ;  although 
this  door  was  the  only  means  of  entrance  directly 
into  the  library,  it  was  very  rarely  used,  as  most 
people  passed  through  the  parlor  or  the  dining- 
room. 

High  over  the  bookcases  and  close  under  the 
ceiling,  was  ranged  Uncle  Larry's  collection  of 
death-masks,  a  collection  in  which  he  took  great 
delight,  which  had  cost  him  an  infinity  of  pains, 
and  which  was  absolutely  without  equal  in  the 
United  States.  There  from  the  top  of  the  wall, 
staring  down  at  the  chance  visitor,  with  their 
sightless  eyes,  were  the  faces  of  the  great  Dante, 


7Q  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

of  Goethe  and  of  Lincoln,  wise  above  other  men, 
with  their  features  now  relaxed  beyond  recogni 
tion  almost,  and  fixed  here  forever  in  death. 
There  were  strange  juxtapositions  among  those 
blank  white  visages,  and  men  who  reviled  each 
other  when  they  lived  were  now  cheek-by-jowl, 
now  that  they  were  dead.  There  are  contrasts  in 
death  as  in  life  ;  and  a  man  might  moralize  for  a 
month  upon  the  plaster-casts  which  hung  over 
the  bookcases  in  Uncle  Larry's  library. 

"  What  a  charming  house  you  have  here,"  said 
Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,  to  the  host  as  he 
entered  the  library;  "  really,  I  had  no  idea."  Then 
he  raised  his  eyes,  and  saw  the  long  line  of 
white  faces,  silent  and  staring.  "  Dear  me !  "  he 
ejaculated,  his  voice  dropping  even  lower  with 
surprise.  "  Pray,  what  are  these  ?  " 

"  That's  a  collection  of  death-masks  I  have 
been  getting  together  during  the  last  twenty 
years,"  Uncle  Larry  answered. 

"  Fancy  now  !  "  said  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon 
deley.  "  You  Americans  have  such  queer  tastes." 

"  We  air  a  remarkable  people,"  declared 
Charley  Sutton,  talking  through  his  nose,  "  and 
you  Britishers  ought  to  know  it." 

"  Really  you  do  use  some  of  the  most  extra 
ordinary  words,"  continued  Mr.  Hobson-Chol 
mondeley.  "  I  went  down  to  the  city  this 
morning —  " 

"  To  the  city  ?  "  asked  Sutton,  in  surprise. 


THE  FULL  SCORE.  ji 

"  Yes,  to  Wall  Street,  you  know,"  explained 
the  Englishman.  "And  there  was  a  great  excite 
ment  there ;  it  appears  they  have  just  struck  a 
bonanza ;  is  that  the  word  ?  " 

"  Bonanza — that's  right  enough." 

"  A  bonanza  in  the  Baby  Mine,  and  they  say  it 
is  bound  to  be  a  big  boom." 

Mr.  Sutton  was  a  Californian  by  birth,  and  gos 
sip  about  mines  was  as  the  breath  of  his  nostrils-. 
"A  bonanza  in  the  Baby  Mine  ? "  he  cried,  with 
great  interest.  "  I  don't  believe  it,  I  guess  it  is 
salted." 

"  Salted?"  queried  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley, 
not  understanding,  "  Qu'  est-ce que  cest  que  ga ? " 

"  I  mean,  that  it  was  a  put  up  job,  that  they 
found  only  the  silver  they  had  put  there  them 
selves,"  explained  Mr.  Sutton. 

"  Dear  me,"  exclaimed  the  Englishman,  "  do 
they  do  things  like  that  ?  " 

"  Don't  they  ?  But  I  don't  care ;  I've  got  a  lot 
of  stock  in  the  Baby  Mine  and  this  find  will  let 
me  out." 

"Only  fancy,"  remarked  Mr.  Hobson-Chol 
mondeley,  dubiously,  rubbing  his  hands  together 
in  wonder  as  to  whether  the  Californian  were 
chaffing  him  or  not 

In  the  meanwhile,  other  members  of  The 
Full  Score  had  arrived.  There  was  a  young 
doctor  of  twenty-five,  who  was  fortunately  as 
bald  as  a  billiard  ball,  and  who  therefore  passed 


72  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

for  thirty-five,  to  the  material  increase  of  the 
confidence  of  his  patients  and  his  own  practice. 
There  was  a  young  sculptor,  who  had  recently 
finished  the  fifth  Soldier's  Memorial  he  had  been 
commissioned  to  execute  within  three  years,  and 
who  was  beginning  to  wish  that  he  might  have  a 
chance  to  commemorate  the  victories  which 
peace  hath  as  well  as  war.  There  was  a  young 
painter,  who  had  given  up  ambitious  historical 
subjects,  to  devote  himself  to  household  decora 
tion,  wall-papers  and  stained-glass,  and  who  was 
rapidly  making  both  a  name  and  a  fortune. 

The  guests  gathered  in  the  library,  with  little 
groups  overflowing  into  the  parlor.  Rudolph 
Vernon  was  holding  forth  to  Warren  Payn  and 
Robert  White  against  the  absurdities  of  modern 
society.  "  I  agree  with  Lord  Byron,"  he  declared, 
vehemently, 

" '  Society  is  now  one  polished  horde, 

Formed  of  two  mighty  tribes,  the  Bores,  and  Bored.'  " 

"There's  another  Byronic  quotation  more 
pertinent  just  now,"  interrupted  White;  "lam 
waiting  for — 

'  That  all-softening,  overpowering  knell, 
The  tocsin  of  the  soul — the  dinner  bell.' " 

"  And  you  shall  have  it  as  soon  as  the  last 
man  comes,"  declared  Uncle  Larry,  who  had 
chanced  to  hear  the  quotation. 


THE  FULL  SCORE. 


73 


"  We  are  all  here  now,"  responded  White, 
"except  Harry  Brackett,  and  he  asked  me  to 
have  him  excused,  as  he  might  be  very  late  or 
even  kept  away  altogether." 

"  What's  the  matter?"  asked  Larry. 

"  The  opera  company  arrived  on  the  City  of 
Constantinople  this  afternoon,  and  he  has  to 
interview  them  all  for  the  Gotham  Gazetted 

"  What,  all  of  them  ?"  enquired  the  host. 
"  Then,  we  need  wait  no  longer.  Let  us  pass 
into  the  banqueting  hall !  " 

The  folding-doors  were  thrown  open,  and  the 
ample  table  in  the  dining-room  stood  revealed. 
Laughton's  own  household  was  not  equal  to  a  din 
ner  fit  to  set  before  The  Full  Score,  for  Larry, 
although  of  simple  tastes  himself,  and  ready  to 
rough  it  on  occasion,  was  not  unfriendly  to  the 
good  things  of  this  life ;  and,  moreover,  he  had 
a  due  and  proper  respect  for  the  fine  art  of 
dining.  He  was  fond  of  having  his  friends  about 
him,  and  more  than  once  had  her  grace,  the 
Duchess  of  Washington  Square,  matronized 
lively  little  parties  of  young  people,  dining  with 
their  Uncle  Larry  before  going  to  the  play,  or 
supping  with  him  after  feasting  on  the  horrors  of 
tragedy.  He  always  suited  his  fare  to  his  com 
pany  ;  and  he  set  before  The  Full  Score  a  very 
different  bill  of  fare  from  that  discussed  by  the 
young  ladies  whom  Mrs.  Martin  had  under  her 
wing.  The  entrees  and  the  ices  were  Larry's 


74 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


chief  care  when  he  had  young  people  of  both 
sexes  about  his  board  ;  while  for  a  stag-dinner  he 
gave  his  attention  mainly  to  the  game  and  to  the 
wines.  Although  the  dinner  was  vicariously 
supplied,  the  cook  and  the  waiters  had  been  to 
the  house  a  dozen  times  before,  and  everything 
was  served  with  perfect  precision.  Laughton 
was  an  excellent  host,  unassuming  and  all-seeing, 
never  putting  himself  fonvard  and  yet  never  for 
getting  that  he  was  the  host,  and  that  the  host 
should  hold  himself  responsible  for  the  comfort 
and  enjoyment  of  the  guests. 

As  The  Full  Score  placed  themselves  about 
the  round  table,  every  man  choosing  his  own  seat, 
Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  broke  the  silence  by 
remarking,  in  a  deep  voice,  "  Tiens,  tiens,  we  are 
only  thirteen." 

"  Thirteen  ? "  repeated  Frederick  Olyphant, 
turning  a  little  paler. 

"  Thirteen  precisely,"  responded  the  little  Eng 
lishman  ;  "  I  counted  directly  we  came  in." 

"  There's  luck  in  odd  numbers,  said  Rory 
O'More."  This  was  the  solace  offered  by  Charley 
Sutton. 

"And  it  is  Friday,  too!"  added  Rudolph 
Vernon. 

"Thirteen?"  repeated  Olyphant,  counting 
hastily  in  the  hope  that  there  had  been  an  error. 
"  If  it  is,  I  suppose  it  cannot  be  helped." 

"  It   doesn't  make  you   uncomfortable,   does 


THE  FULL  SCORE. 


75 


it  ?  "  asked  Robert  White,  who  sat  at  Olyphant's 
right  hand,  as  Olyphant  sat  at  Larry's. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  responded  Frederick,  trying  to 
turn  it  off  with  a  laugh.  "  I  accept  all  superstitions 
as  premonitions  of  future  scientific  discovery." 

"  We  are  thirteen  now,  but  it  is  only  until 
Harry  Brackett  arrives,"  urged  Larry,  "  and  he  is 
sure  to  be  here  before  we  break  up.  So  this 
thirteen  doesn't  count !  " 

"  Perhaps  we  ought  to  do  as  the  old  Gauls  are 
said  to  have  done,"  suggested  White ;  "  when 
ever  they  found  themselves  thirteen  they  drew 
lots  and  killed  one  of  their  number  on  the  spot, 
for  fear  that  the  unlucky  combination  should 
cause  somebody's  death  in  the  course  of  a  twelve 
month." 

"  Perhaps "  hazarded  Rudolph  Vernon,  "  we 
might  send  for  a  fourteenth —  " 

"  To  fill  this  living  sonnet,  as  I  suppose  you 
poets  would  call  it,"  interrupted  Sutton,  looking 
at  Vernon. 

"  I  know  a  man  who  lives  around  the  corner," 
continued  Vernon,  "and  you  all  know  him;  he's 
a  fellow  poet.  If  I  propose  him  as  a  member  I 
know  you  will  all  give  him  a  unanimous  vote — 
in  the  negative." 

"  You  must  mean  Tapp  ?  "  said  Sutton. 

"  Of  course,"  added  Eliphalet  Duncan. 

"  Tapp  it  is,"  Vernon  responded.  "  Do  you 
want  him  as  a  member  of  this  club  ?  " 


^6  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

There  was  a  sudden  and  tumultuous  shout  of 
"  No  !  "  from  everybody  else,  a  shout  which  bore 
testimony  to  the  extreme  unpopularity  of  Mr.  S. 
Clozen  Tapp,  a  young  poet  not  without  ability, 
but  best  known  for  his  lofty  self-appreciation  and 
for  his  over-sensitiveness  to  criticism. 

"  Gentlemen,"  began  Eliphalet  Duncan,  "  I 
draw  your  attention  to  this  terrapin ;  it  is 
divine ! " 

"  Liph  worships  his  stomach,"  was  the  com 
ment  of  his  brother-in-law. 

"  And  pampers  his  god  with  burnt  offerings," 
added  White. 

"  The  undevout  gastronomer  is  mad,"  Uncle 
Larry  declared. 

Mr.  Robert  White  noticed  that  Frederick 
Olyphant  had  turned  all  his  glasses  upside  down. 
"  You  are  not  a  cold-\^ter  man,  are  you,"  he 
asked,  in  surprise.  "  Do  you  stick  to  croton 
extra  sec  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Fred  demanded. 

"  That's  another  of  your  left-handed  ideas," 
rejoined  White.  "You  drink  cold  water,  and 
you  object  to  thirteen  at  table." 

"  Look  not  on  the  wine  when  it  is  red,"  quoted 
Fred,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  have  always  considered  that  a  most  mis 
leading  text,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  intervening, "  for 
it  drives  a  man  to  white  wines,  which  are  not 
half  as  wholesome  as  the  red." 


THE  FULL  SCORE. 


77 


Thus  led  into  a  gentle  debate,  Frederick 
Olyphant  struggled  vigorously  with  the  gloom 
which  oppressed  him,  and  also  with  the  purely 
physical  discomfort  about  which  he  had  spoken 
to  Uncle  Larry  on  his  arrival.  He  took  his 
share  in  the  paradoxical  discussions  of  Shakspere 
and  the  musical  glasses,  which  form  the  staple 
of  talk  at  a  gathering  of  enthusiastic  young  men, 
most  of  whom  had  strong  artistic  inclinations, 
even  when  they  were  not  by  profession  workers 
in  one  art  or  another. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  dinner  the  conversation 
took  a  turn  which  forced  Olyphant  to  the  front. 
One  of  the  lawyers  was  making  fun  of  Mr.  S. 
Clozen  Tapp's  last  novel,  '  A  Young  Lady  from 
Long  Island,'  which  White  irreverently  called 
'  The  Girl  from  Gowanus.'  He  was  especially 
satirical  on  the  introduction  of  a  duel  into  an 
American  novel  in  this  last  quarter  of  the  nine 
teenth  century. 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  retorted  Rudolph  Vernon, 
"  and  I  do  not  want  to  say  a  word  in  defence  of 
Tapp's  book,  but  the  disappearance  of  the  duel 
gave  as  great  a  blow  to  romantic  fiction  as  it  did 
to  polite  manners  !  " 

"  The  duel  hasn't  altogether  disappeared." 
declared  Charley  Sutton ;  "  in  New  Centreville, 
once,  I  saw  two  men  fight  with  bowie-knives. 
Out  West  many  a  man  dies  with  his  boots  on." 

"  Fancy !  "    said   Mr.    Hobson-Cholmondeley, 


78  THE  LAST  MEETING, 

making  mental  notes  of  a  new  fact  in  Ameri 
can  civilization. 

"  I  don't  call  butchery  with  bowie-knives  a 
duel,"  retorted  the  poet,  indignantly.  "  A  duel 
is  an  affair  of  honor,  fought  out  with  rapier  and 
dagger—" 

"  Pistols  and  coffee,"  interrupted  White. 

"  The  duel,"  continued  Vernon,  not  noticing 
this  interjection,  "  got  its  artistic  value  from  the 
fact  that  it  was  often  the  final  station  of  an  elab 
orate  scheme  of  revenge.  But  now,  nobody  dare 
use  revenge  as  the  basis  of  a  story." 

"  Good  subject  for  an  old-fashioned  essay  for 
the  Arctic  Monthly"  Olyphant  suggested :  "  '  On 
the  Disappearance  of  Revenge  as  an  Element  of 
Modern  Fiction.' " 

"  I  think  that  revenge  has  gone  out  in  litera 
ture,"  White  remarked,  "  because  it  has  gone  out 
in  life.  Nowadays  a  man  doesn't  sit  up  nights 
to  hate  another  man;  he  cuts  him  in  the  avenue 
on  Sunday,  and  thanks  God  he  is  rid  of  a 
knave ! " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  Uncle  Larry  interposed. 
"  Out  West,  as  Charley  Sutton  said,  men  still 
take  speedy  vengeance  on  their  enemies.  Out 
West  there  is  still  a  survival  of  the  ordeal  by 
battle,  and  disputes  are  settled  by  the  arbitra 
ment  of  the  bowie-knife." 

"  But,  Uncle  Larry,"  urged  White,  "  that  is 
quick  temper,  not  slow  revenge." 


THE  FULL  SCORE.  *g 

"  Poor  Bob  is  right  this  time,"  said  Eliphalet 
Duncan ;  "  revenge  is  played  out." 

"  It  may  be  played  out  in  the  West,  Liph,"  de 
clared  Frederick  Olyphant,  "  but  in  the  East  it 
is  alive  and  kicking." 

"  In  Corsica,  now,"  suggested  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley. 

"  In  Corsica,  and  still  farther  East,  in  the 
Levant,  generally,"  continued  Olyphant  "Wher 
ever  the  Turk  and  the  Greek  have  met,  there  are 
long  hatreds  yet,  and  the  slow  revenge  of  malig 
nity  is  as  possible  now  as  it  was  in  the  Middle 
Ages  in  Italy." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Hobson-Chol- 
mondeley. 

"  I  know  it !  In  London  and  in  New  York  a 
man's  fife  may  be  safe  enough  from  revenge ;  we 
English-speakers  are  a  law-abiding  race  in  the 
main,  and  our  law  is  served  out  to  us  with  jus 
tice,  for  the  most  part.  But  in  the  Orient  revenge 
is  a  motive  more  potent  than  love." 

"  How  very  interesting !  "  said  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley. 

Frederick  Olyphant  had  warmed  to  his  work 
as  he  spoke,  and  his  wonted  reserve  was  broken 
through. 

"  Why,  if  I  were  to  die  to-night,"  he  went  on, 
"  if  I  were  to  be  killed  suddenly  and  myster 
iously,  even  here  in  New  York,  I  should  know 
that  my  death  lay  at  the  door  of  one  man,  a  man 


g0  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

whom  I  have  met  only  twice,  but  who  warned 
me  that  the  third  meeting  would  be  fatal." 

"  Tiens,  tiens"  said  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon- 
deley. 

"You  mean  Constantine  Vollonides,  I  sup 
pose?"  asked  Larry.  "  The  man  with  the  Black 
Heart." 

"  That's  the  man,"  returned  Olyphant,  "  Con 
stantine  Vollonides." 

"  You  ought  to  tell  them  the  whole  story, 
Fred,"  remarked  Uncle  Larry ;  "  how  you  saved 
the  man's  life  the  first  time  you  met  him  ;  how 
you  spared  his  life  the  second  time ;  and  how  he 
then  warned  you  that  the  third  meeting  would 
be  the  last  meeting." 

"  I  say,  Fred,  this  is  not  fair,"  declared  White ; 
"  you  might  have  let  me  interview  you  for  the 
Gotham  Gazette  :  it  would  have  been  copied  in 
half  the  papers  in  the  country." 

Fred  smiled  and  answered,  "  I  did  tell  Harry 
Brackett  something  about  it  once,  and  he  worked 
it  up  in  one  of  his  out-of-town  letters." 

"  Then  you  must  tell  us  now,"  cried  Charley 
Sutton.  "  The  truth,  the  whole  truth  and  noth 
ing  but  the  truth !  " 

Olyphant  shook  his  head. 

"  But  you  must ;  we  insist,"  said  Bob  White. 

Fred  remained  silent.  He  had  a  sudden 
return  of  the  oppression,  physical  and  moral, 
from  which  he  had  been  suffering  since  he 


THE  FULL  SCORE.  gj 

parted  from  Winifred  Marshall.  He  felt  that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  him  to  tell  the  story. 

"  Uncle  Larry,  to  you  we  appeal,"  White 
cried  ;  "  you  are  the  Lord  of  the  Revels  and  the 
Keeper  of  the  Green  Seals,  and  you  must  unlock 
the  lips  of  the  great  silent  man." 

"  Come,  Fred,"  Uncle  Larry  began,  when 
Olyphant  interrupted  him : 

"  Let  me  suggest  as  a  compromise  that  you 
make  Uncle  Larry  tell  the  story." 

"  I  accept  the  amendment,"  said  Charley 
Button,  promptly ;  "  Gentlemen  of  The  Full 
Score,  those  of  you  who  are  in  favor  of  hearing 
from  Mr.  Laurence  Laughton  the  strange  story 
of  Constantine  Vollonides,  the  man  with  the 
Black. Heart,  will  please  say  Aye  !  " 

There  was  a  thunderous  chorus  of  Ayes. 

"  But  I  protest,"  began  Uncle  Larry. 

"  Contrary  minded,  No,"  continued  Sutton. 
"  The  motion  seems  to  be  carried, — it  is  carried. 
Uncle  Larry  has  the  floor." 

"  Uncle  Larry  has  no  use  for  the  floor  at  this 
early  hour  of  the  evening,"  responded  the  host. 
"  But  I  am  willing  to  tell  the  tale,  if  Fred  won't." 

"  Fred  won't,"  said  Olyphant.  "  And  if  you 
will  excuse  me,  Larry,  I'll  go  into  the  library 
and  write  a  note." 

"  You  mustn't  go,  Fred,"  urged  Robert  White. 
"  How  do  we  know  what  kind  of  a  yarn  Larry 
will  spin  us,  if  you  are  not  here  to  see  fair  play." 
6 


82  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  get  back  before  he  comes 
to  the  sticking-point,"  replied  Olyphant,  as  he 
rose  from  the  table  and  passed  into  the  library. 
He  was  perfectly  at  home  in  Laughton's  house, 
and  knew  just  where  to  help  himself  to  paper 
and  pen  and  ink.  He  took  his  seat  before  the 
large  desk-table  in  the  centre  of  the  library,  in 
front  of  the  blazing  fire  of  crackling  hickory  logs, 
and  began  to  write  a  letter  to  Winifred  Marshall. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART. 

44ATOW,  Uncle  Larry,  tell  us  the  tale  of  the 

IN  man  with  the  Black  Heart.  No  doubt  it 
is  gruesome  and  weird,  not  to  say  marvelous 
and  melodramatic,"  said  Poor  Bob  White. 
"  Nothing  extenuate  nor  aught  set  down  in 
malice,  but  give  us  the  cold  truth,  la  verite 
frappee,  as  we  say  in  French." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  responded  Uncle  Larry, 
"just  how  to  tell  you  the  story  or  exactly  where 
to  begin." 

"  Begin  at  the  beginning,  of  course,"  suggested 
Rudolph  Vernon ;  "  strike  the  lead  at  the  out- 
croppings  and  get  right  down  to  pay-gravel,  as 
Charley  Sutton  would  say." 

"  Invoke  the  Muse,"  retorted  the  young 
Californian ;  "  perhaps  she  will  help  you  out,  and 
even  if  she  doesn't,  you  fill  out  ten  lines  or  so, 
which  is  worth  consideration  when  editors  pay 
for  poetry  at  column-rates." 

"  You  see,  the  difficulty  is,"  Uncle  Larry 
continued,  "  that  I  wasn't  present  at  the  first 
meeting  between  Fred  and  Vollonides.  I  can 

83 


84  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

bear  witness  to  the  second,  because  I  was  there 
all  the  while ;  but  as  to  the  first,  my  evidence  is 
not  evidence  at  all,  is  only  hearsay.  I  had  liefer 
Fred  told  you  himself;  still,  if  he  won't,  I  must  do 
the  best  I  can  to  give  you  at  least  the  pith  of 
the  story." 

"Tell  the  tale  as  best  you  can,"  remarked 
White,  encouragingly,  as  he  lighted  another 
cigarette. 

"  Well,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  "  as  you  all  know, 
Frederick  Olyphant  was  the  special  pictorial 
correspondent  of  the  Gotham  Gazette  all  through 
the  little  unpleasantness  between  the  turbaned 
Turk  and  the  Russian  bear.  I  did  not  get  out 
there  to  see  him  until  near  the  end  of  the  tussle. 
Then  I  heard  an  allusion  to  the  man  with  the 
Black  Heart,  and  I  asked  Fred  for  full  particulars. 
At  first  he  was  a  recalcitrant  witness,  but  I 
managed  to  get  at  the  main  facts  by  dint  of  hard 
labor ;  and  here  they  are : 

"  Frederick  Olyphant  was  with  the  Russian 
troops  all  through  the  terrible  winter  campaign. 
As  the  representative  of  an  important  newspaper 
and  as  an  American,  he  was  doubly  welcome, 
and  his  labors  were  made  as  pleasant  for  him  as 
possible.  The  Russian  officers  were  as  friendly 
as  he  could  wish,  and  he  was  allowed  special 
privileges.  One  day  he  was  with  the  advance 
guard  as  it  entered  a  little  town  called  Tartar- 
Bazardjik.  Just  as  Fred  was  going  to  get  some- 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART.      85 

thing  to  eat,  he  saw  a  squad  of  soldiers  dragging 
off  a  poor  devil  to  instant  execution.  The  man 
had  been  caught  looting.  Now,  there  was  no 
end  of  stealing  in  those  days ;  your  teeth  were 
not  safe  in  your  head  if  you  slept  with  your 
mouth  open ;  and  the  Russian  officers  had  orders 
to  stop  it  short,  and  to  shoot  any  man  caught  in 
the  act.  Fred  had  seen  lots  of  poor  wretches, 
half-a-dozen  at  a  time,  stood  up  against  a  blank 
wall  and  dropped  with  a  single  volley  from  a 
company  detailed  for  the  purpose.  It  was  not 
his  business  to  interfere.  But  something  about 
this  man  in  Bazardjik  attracted  his  attention,  and 
as  the  soldiers  passed  him  he  looked  at  the 
fellow  carefully.  There  was  an  air  of  pride 
about  the  man,  despite  his  desperate  condition  ; 
his  eye,  as  it  glanced  about  like  that  of  a  hunted 
beast,  was  as  sharp  as  a  needle ;  plainly  enough 
the  fellow  was  not  a  vulgar  thief.  Acting  on  a 
sudden  impulse,  Fred  determined  to  save  the 
man's  life.  Throwing  up  his  hand,  and  speaking 
as  one  having  authority,  he  commanded  the 
men  to  halt !  The  Russian  soldier  is  as  docile 
as  he  is  brave,  and  he  is  used  to  being  ordered 
about  sharply.  The  soldiers  who  were  leading 
the  man  away  to  death  stopped  short  and  saluted 
Fred,  whom  they  took  for  an  officer  of  high 
rank,  judging  from  his  manner.  Their  captive 
drew  himself  up  and  looked  at  Fred.  It  was  the 
look  of  a  man  who  did  not  fear  death,  although 


86  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

he  longed  for  life.  Fred  asked  the  corporal,  who 
was  in  command  of  the  little  squad  of  soldiers, 
what  the  fellow  had  been  doing.  He  had  been 
caught  stealing  bread,  the  Russian  answered. 
Now,  in  those  troublesome  times  to  loot  food 
was  no  great  crime ;  Fred  had  done  it  himself, 
when  he  had  to  choose  between  starvation  and 
a  helping  of  himself  without  so  much  as  a  by- 
your-leave.  So  he  determined  to  save  the 
prisoner.  '  The  man  is  my  servant,'  he  said  to 
the  soldiers,  '  let  him  go.  I  will  chastise  him.' 
And  as  the  Russians  released  him,  Fred,  he 
struck  him  across  the  shoulders  with  his  whip, 
and  called  him  a  dog,  and  ordered  him  to  carry 
the  baggage  up  stairs.  The  corporal  and  his 
men  hesitated  a  little  as  they  saw  their  prey 
pass  from  their  hands,  but  Fred  paid  no  atten 
tion  to  their  murmurings,  and  ordered  his  new 
servant  harshly,  and  struck  him  again  once  or 
twice,  to  disarm  suspicion,  until  at  last  the 
soldiers  yielded  and  made  off." 

"  Really,  now,"  ventured  Mr.  Hobson-Chol- 
mondeley,"  did  Mr.  Olyphant  truly  save  a  man's 
life?" 

"  Well,  he  did,"  Uncle  Larry  replied. 

"  What  has  this  to  do  with  the  Black  Heart  ?  " 
asked  Rudolph  Vernon. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  will  give  me  time ;" 
and  Uncle  Larry  lighted  one  of  the  tiny  little 
cigars  he  always  affected. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART.       87 

"Gentlemen  of  The  Full  Score!"  cried  Charley 
Sutton,  "  silence  for  the  Chair !  " 

Uncle  Larry  took  a  long  pull  at  his  little  cigar 
and  then  went  on  : 

"  While  Fred  was  ordering  about  the  man  he 
had  rescued,  he  was  sizing  him  up  and  taking 
stock  of  him.  And  he  wasn't  any  too  pleased 
with  the  result  of  his  observations.  The  man  was 
apparently  a  Greek.  He  had  small  black  eyes, 
given  to  quick  underhand  glances  ;  but,  as  Fred 
thought,  this  furtive  look  might  be  due  to  the 
desperate  strait  the  man  was  in.  He  had  a  little 
pointed  black  mustache,  under  which  there  was 
a  gleam  of  teeth  seen  through  a  treacherous 
smile.  He  had  a  dead  white  face  and  in  the 
centre  of  his  forehead  he  had  a  birth-mark,  a 
curious  stain  in  the  shape  of  a  human  heart. 
Fred  found  out  after,  that  when  the  man  was  not 
excited  this  red  scar  burned  and  blazed  on  his 
forehead  like  the  gory  socket  of  the  Cyclops' 
eye.  But  at  all  times  of  mental  strain,  the  birth 
mark  became  surcharged  with  blood,  and  it  sank 
deeper  and  darker  into  the  white  skin,  until  at 
last  there  stood  out  on  the  man's  forehead  a  black 
heart ! " 

"  And  didn't  Fred  ever  discover  who  the  fellow 
was,  and  where  he  came  from?"  asked  Eliphalet 
Duncan. 

"  Well,  he  did,"  Laurence  Laughton  replied. 
"  The  man's  name  was  Constantine  Vollonides. 


88  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

He  was  a  Levantine  Greek,  and  his  mother  had 
been  a  Corsican." 

"  If  he  was  a  Corsican  by  descent  and  a  Levan 
tine  by  training,  he  was  prepared  both  by 
heredity  and  by  environment  to  cherish  revenge 
as  a  sacred  duty,  and  not  to  be  scrupulous  in  its 
attainment."  This  was  the  contribution  of  Mr. 
Rudolph  Vernon,  whose  poetry  was  sometimes 
super-saturated  with  scientific  phraseology. 

"  You  have  rung  the  bell  this  time,"  said  Uncle 
Larry.  "  Constantine  Vollonides  was  an  incarna 
tion  of  the  vendetta,  and  he  was  as  free  from  all 
scruple  as  only  a  Levantine  can  be;  and,  more 
than  this,  he  was  a  Greek,  with  the  intolerable 
pride  of  a  Greek,  and  with  all  the  sensitiveness 
which  accompanies  that  pride.  He  had  a  feeling 
of  humiliation  that  he  had  been  forced  to  accept 
a  menial  position  from  Fred,  even  though  it 
was  to  save  his  life.  And  he  never  forgave  Fred 
for  the  few  light  blows  given  him  in  the  presence 
of  the  soldiers  to  lessen  their  suspicion.  He  felt 
degraded  at  the  thought  that  there  was  a  man 
living  whom  he  had  called  master,  and  who  had 
struck  him." 

"  But  didn't  the  fellow  see  that  Fred  had  done 
this  only  in  the  hope  of  saving  his  life  ?  "  asked 
Eliphalet  Duncan. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry  ;  "  he 
may  have  seen  it  well  enough ;  I  suppose  he 
did;  but  it  made  no  difference.  It  was  no  let 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART. 


89 


or  hindrance  to  the  hatred  he  bore  Fred  ever 
after." 

"  Of  course,"  remarked  Eliphalet  Duncan, 
"  but  he  had  other  motives  for  his  hatred,  too !  " 

"  He  had,"  answered  Uncle  Larry,  "  or  at  least 
his  existing  hatred  was  greatly  intensified  by  a 
little  episode  which  took  place  a  few  hours  after 
Fred  first  met  him.  As  Fred's  apparent  servant, 
Vollonides  got  knowledge  of  the  hiding-place  of 
a  kindly  old  Turkish  gentleman  whom  Fred  was 
also  trying  to  shield ;  and  out  of  pure  cussedness, 
apparently,  and  with  incredible  meanness,  the 
Greek  betrayed  this  Turk  to  the  Russians,  and 
the  old  gentleman  was  most  brutally  ill-treated ; 
in  fact,  he  died  from  his  injuries.  Of  course,  when 
Fred  heard  of  this  he  was  wild,  and  he  just  gave 
Vollonides  a  piece  of  his  mind.  Fred  told  the 
fellow  he  had  intervened  in  his  behalf  out  of  no 
kindness  to  him,  and  that  he  regretted  already 
what  he  had  done,  and  that  he  had  saved  his 
worthless  life  only  as  he  would  have  saved  the 
life  of  any  other  wretched  cur.  Now,  Fred  can 
use  early  English  when  he  tries,  and  he  let  the 
Greek  have  it  hot  and  heavy.  And  if  Vollonides 
had  hated  Fred  before,  for  the  blows  of  the  whip, 
he  hated  him  after  with  a  ten-fold  hatred, 
because  of  the  stinging  scorn  with  which  he 
had  been  lashed." 

"Truly,  a  most  unpleasant  person,  I  should 
say,"  remarked  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley. 


QO  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"And  what  might  his  position  be? — I  mean  was 
he  a  man  of  family  ?  " 

"  I  believe  he  had  not  a  little  pride  of  birth, 
and  he  was  a  man  of  some  small  means,  too ;  he 
was  full  of  splendid  financial  schemes,  and  it  was 
in  spying  out  the  land  to  prospect  for  one  of 
these  that  he  had  got  caught  between  the  lines 
and  robbed  and  left  for  dead.  In  the  desperation 
of  hunger  he  had  taken  the  bread,  for  the  theft 
of  which  the  Russians  were  going  to  shoot  him. 
Oddly  enough,  he  never  bore  malice  against  the 
soldiers  who  arrested  him.  On  the  contrary,  he 
hated  the  Turk  as  only  a  Greek  can.  As  soon 
as  he  could  get  off  scart-free  he  left  Fred,  without 
a  word  of  thanks ;  and  the  next  time  we  heard 
of  him,  he  had  been  the  chief  instrument  of  the 
surprise  and  capture  by  the  Russians  of  an  im 
portant  Turkish  fort,  impregnable  except  against 
treachery.  You  see,  he  was  no  coward,  and  no 
common  villain,  though  he  was  as  capable  of 
mischief  and  as  capable  in  making  mischief  as 
lago  or  the  Prince  of  Darkness  himself." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  suggested  Eliphalet  Duncan, 
"  that  Fred,  who  has  some  superstitions,  had  not 
yet  another, — that  he  did  not  share  the  unwill 
ingness  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  northern  coasts 
of  Scotland,  who  hesitate  to  help  a  drowning 
man,  for  fear  that  they  may  be  made  respon 
sible  for  the  support  and  care  of  the  man  whose 
life  they  have  saved." 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART.      gi 

"  You  have  told  us  about  the  first  meeting 
between  Fred  and  the  man  with  the  Black 
Heart,"  said  Charley  Sutton,  "  now  shed  some 
light  on  the  second." 

"  Turn  yourself  full  on,  Uncle  Larry,  and  give 
us  the  latest  news  and  all  the  particulars,"  urged 
Bob  White. 

"  Well,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  "  at  the  tail-end  of 
the  war,  when  peace  was  certain  and  we  were  all 
making  ready  to  go  our  several  ways,  we  got  up 
a  dinner  over  in  Pera, — a  few  Americans,  a  lot  of 
correspondents  and  some  of  our  particular  friends 
among  the  Russian  officers.  Vollonides  was  in 
Constantinople  then,  and  one  of  the  officers 
brought  him  to  the  dinner.  He  made  himself 
pleasant  enough  until  he  caught  sight  of  Fred, 
and  then  the  blood  rushed  to  his  forehead,  and  I 
saw  the  black  heart  for  the  first  time.  Generally, 
Vollonides  was  a  man  of  easy  conversation,  but 
that  evening  he  was  ugly  and  as  cantankerous  a 
cuss  as  the  devil  could  find  anywhere  to  do  his 
dirty  work.  The  Russian  officers  had  began  to 
know  his  ways  and  to  find  out  his  peculiarities ; 
and  one  of  them  leaned  over  to  me  and  whispered 
'  When  you  see  the  black  heart, — beware ! ' 
From  this  officer  I  pumped  a  lot  of  facts  about 
Constantine  Vollonides,  how  he  had  been  making 
money,  hand  over  fist,  how  he  had  half-a-dozen 
financial  schemes  on  foot,  how  he  was  estab 
lishing  in  business  the  chief  members  of  his 


02  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

family,  how  he  had  one  brother  in  Southern 
California." 

"  You  don't  say  so  ? "  interrupted  Charley 
Sutton  ;  "  down  in  Old  California  ?  " 

"  Down  on  the  peninsula  somewhere,"  answered 
Laughton.  "  I  got  my  information  from  a  Russian ; 
and,  of  course,  he  didn't  know  California  from 
Kalamazoo." 

"  Proceed, — your  story  interests  me  strangely," 
said  J.  Warren  Payn,  in  apt  parody  of  the  man 
nerisms  of  the  latest  imported  tragedian. 

Uncle  Larry  started  his  little  cigar  again,  and 
continued : 

"  When  I  was  warned  against  this  Constantine 
Vollonides,  I  took  notice  of  him,  and  I  saw  that 
he  kept  glancing  stealthily  at  Fred,  and  it  struck 
me  that  his  expression  was  very  vindictive. 
This  surprised  me,  and  I  doubted  what  I  saw, 
because  it  seemed  to  me  impossible  that  a  man 
should  bear  malice  against  another  man  for  sav 
ing  his  life.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  the  room 
we  were  in  had  been  decorated  by  two  or  three  of 
the  residents  with  flags  and  arms,  and  with  any 
number  of  pictures  of  scenes  in  the  war,  cut  from 
the  illustrated  papers.  Among  these  was  a  full 
page  portrait  of  Constantine  Vollonides,  pub 
lished  in  the  Illustrated  London  News  just  after 
he  had  made  himself  known  by  his  services  to 
the  Russian  cause.  And,  of  course,  there  were 
lots  and  lots  of  Fred's  sketches.  One  of  the 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART. 


93 


correspondents  said  something  to  Vollonides 
about  one  of  these  sketches  of  Fred's,  and 
Vollonides  made  some  disparaging  remark. 
The  correspondent  protested,  and  Vollonides 
repeated  his  remark,  out  loud,  so  that  everybody 
could  hear  it.  Fred  couldn't  help  hearing  it;  but 
he  didn't  let  on  or  take  notice.  Then  Vollonides 
began  to  criticise  Fred's  sketches,  one  by  one, 
in  a  most  offensive  manner.  Fortunately,  they 
were  at  opposite  ends  of  the  table,  and  down  at 
our  end  we  made  as  much  noise  as  we  could  to 
try  and  drown  his  remarks.  But  it  was  no  use. 
He  stood  up  before  one  picture  and  declared  that 
it  could  only  have  been  drawn  by  a  coward, 
skulking  out  of  the  line  of  danger.  Then  the 
officer  who  had  invited  him  tried  to  get  him  to 
keep  quiet ;  but  that  wasn't  any  use  either.  The 
man  was  set  on  having  his  own  will." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  asked  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley,  as  Laughton  paused  to  take  a 
fresh  cigar, "  that  the  fellow  really  wanted  to  pick 
a  quarrel  with  the  man  who  had  saved  his  life?  " 

"  He  couldn't  wait  to  pick  a  quarrel,"  returned 
Uncle  Larry ;  "  he  just  took  up  any  quarrel  that 
was  handy  ;  and  if  one  didn't  come  handy,  he 
meant  to  make  it.  At  last  he  insulted  Fred  so 
grossly  that  notice  had  to  be  taken  of  it;  I 
needn't  tell  you  what  the  insult  was,  for  it  was  as 
low  in  its  expression  as  it  was  malignant  in  its 
intent.  Fred  felt  that  as  an  American  among 


24  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

strangers  it  was  his  duty  to  speak  up.  He  asked 
me  to  go  across  the  room  and  demand  an  apology. 
Constantine  Vollonides  smiled  a  sinister  smile  of 
self-satisfaction  as  I  came  up  to  him,  and  referred 
me  to  the  officer  whose  guest  he  was.  This 
officer  was  a  gentleman,  and  a  very  disgusted  man 
he  was  indeed ;  but  he  was  powerless.  Vollonides 
refused  to  apologize,  and  it  was  arranged  that  the 
meeting  should  take  place  on  the  spot" 

"  A  duel  ?  "  asked  Rudolph  Vermon,  eagerly. 

"  That  was  the  size  of  it,"  responded  Larry. 

"  A  duel — in  a  room — across  a  handkerchief,  in 
the  regular  old  fashion  ?  I  should  have  joyed  to 
see  it,"  cried  the  poet. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  "  a 
duel  is  all  very  well  to  read  about  or  to  hear 
about,  but  it  isn't  any  fun  when  it's  your  best 
friend  who  is  going  to  stand  up  to  be  shot  at" 

"  Why  did  they  fight  in  the  room  ?  "  asked 
Charley  Sutton. 

"  For  several  reasons.  The  insult  had  been 
public,  and  it  was  only  fair  that  those  who  had 
heard  it  should  be  present  at  the  meeting.  Then, 
many  of  those  at  the  dinner  were  going  off  and 
away  the  next  morning.  Then,  too,  secrecy  and 
despatch  were  necessary,  and  there  was  no  place 
where  we  could  get  these  better  than  the  room 
we  were  in — a  long,  large  room,  big  enough  to 
serve  as  the  banqueting  hall  for  a  state  dinner." 

"And  they  fought  a  duel  in  a  dining-room?" 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART. 


95 


inquired  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,  with  deep 
anxiety. 

"  They  fought  a  duel  across  the  dining-room 
table !  "  said  Uncle  Larry. 

"  Dear  me !  "  sighed  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmonde 
ley  ;  "  how  very  dreadful !  " 

"Of  course,  Fred  did  not  want  to  fight  the 
fellow,"  continued  Uncle  Larry,  "  and  he  had  me 
declare  that  he  would  be  satisfied  without  an 
apology,  if  Vollonides  would  withdraw  the  opprob 
rious  epithets.  The  Greek  refused  with  a  scorn 
ful  laugh.  I  never  saw  any  human  being  look 
as  devilish  as  he  did,  when  he  laughed  then,  with 
that  black  heart  burned  deep  into  his  forehead 
like  a  brand  of  Cain.  He  wanted  swords ;  but 
we  chose  revolvers,  with  only  one  chamber 
loaded.  The  men  were  to  stand  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  dinner-table,  about  ten  paces  apart, 
At  the  word  they  were  to  have  the  right  to  fire, 
either  where  they  stood,  or  after  advancing  to  the 
table  midway  between  them." 

"  That's  almost  as  deadly  a  duel  as  a  fight  with 
bowie-knives  in  a  dark  cabin,"  Charley  Sutton 
remarked. 

"As  Fred  took  his  place,  with  his  revolver  in 
his  right  hand,  he  asked  Vollonides  to  withdraw 
the  insult.  'Are  you  afraid  to  face  me?'  was 
the  only  answer  he  got  from  the  Greek.  Fred 
repeated  his  request  in  a  manly  and  dignified  way, 
making  a  last  appeal  to  avoid  bloodshed,  if  pos- 


^6  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

sible.  You  see,  most  the  men  there  had  seen 
Fred  under  fire,  and  they  knew  he  was  no  coward, 
so  he  could  go  farther  for  the  sake  of  peace  than 
his  pride  would  perhaps  have  let  him  go  at 
another  time.  And  again  Vollonides  scoffed  at 
him.  '  Are  we  babies,'  he  asked,  '  that  we  should 
waste  time  in  idle  talk  ?  No.  I  will  not  retract 
what  I  said.  I  will  repeat  it ! '  And  he  did. 
Well,  Fred,  he  stood  still  and  silent  a  moment, 
and  then  he  said,  '  I  have  given  you  a  last  chance 
to  save  your  life.  Now  I  shall  shoot  you  through 
the  heart ! '  It  wasn't  at  all  like  Fred  to  boast, 
but  the  man  had  outraged  him  and  he  meant 
what  he  said." 

"And  did  he  do  it?"  J.  Warren  Payn  asked, 
with  excited  interest. 

"  Who  is  telling  this  tale  ;  you  or  I  ?  "  inquired 
Laurence  Laughton,  sarcastically.  "  If  I  am 
telling  it,  let  me  tell  it  in  my  own  way." 

"  Take  your  time,  Uncle  Larry,"  said  Poor 
Bob  White ;  "  so  long  as  we  are  in  at  the  death 
at  last,  we  are  in  no  hurry." 

"  Well,"  Laughton  continued,  "  Fred  stood  on 
one  side  of  the  room  and  Vollonides  at  the  other, 
and  the  dining-table  divided  the  distance  between 
them.  The  rest  of  us  gathered  at  the  two  ends 
of  the  room.  I  let  the  officer,  who  was  the 
second  of  Vollonides,  give  the  signal.  He  asked 
them  if  they  were  ready.  Then  he  counted,  One, 
Two,  Three — Fire !  At  the  word  a  swift  sound 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART. 


97 


slit  the  air;  Vollonides  had  fired  at  Fred  and 
missed  him.  The  bullet  had  grazed  Fred's  ear, 
and  then  had  lodged  itself  deep  in  the  wall  behind 
his  head.  Fred  had  reserved  his  fire.  He  was 
quite  calm  and  collected.  He  walked  slowly  up 
to  the  table,  and  then  covered  Vollonides  with 
the  point  of  his  pistol.  I  will  say  for  the  fellow 
that  he  was  not  a  coward.  He  stood  up  firmly 
and  he  looked  Fred  in  the  eye.  His  face  was 
whiter  than  ever,  and  the  black  heart  in  his 
forehead  was  blacker  than  ever,  but  he  did  not 
tremble.  Fred  kept  the  revolver  aimed  at  the 
man's  breast  for  at  least  ten  seconds;  it  seemed 
an  hour  to  us.  What  it  must  have  been  to  the 
Greek  I  can  only  guess." 

"  Why  didn't  Fred  shoot  him  dead  ?  "  asked 
Charley  Sutton. 

"But  that  would  have  been  murder!"  ejacu 
lated  the  horrified  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley. 

"  He  said  he  was  going  to  plug  him  in  the 
heart,"  pursued  the  young  Californian.  "  Why 
didn't  he  do  it?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry;  "  per 
haps  he  thought  it  would  be  too  cold-blooded  a 
deed.  Perhaps  he  did  not  want  to  take  away  the 
life  he  had  saved  once  already.  Yet  he  had  said 
he  would  shoot  him  through  the  heart.  That 
was  why  he  hesitated  so  long.  Then  he  slowly 
raised  his  revolver  until  it  covered  the  birth 
mark  on  the  Greek's  forehead.  Vollonides  did 
7 


98 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


not  quail ;  he  looked  right  along  the  barrel  into 
Fred's  eye.  Then  Fred  raised  the  revolver  a 
little  higher  yet  and  fired  and  sent  his  bullet  into 
the  left  breast  of  the  portrait  of  Constantine 
Vollonides — the  portrait  which  hung  right  over 
the  head  of  the  original ! " 

"Fancy  now!"  said  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon- 
deley.  > 

"  So  the  accused  escap'ed  on  a  technicality," 
suggested  Eliphalet  Duncan,  the  lawyer. 

"Fred  would  have  done  better  if  he  had 
dropped  him  in  his  tracks,"  Charley  Sutton 
remarked. 

"  I  understand  well  enough  why  he  let  him 
go,"  Rudolph  Vernon  declared ;  "  but  the  story 
would  have  been  more  picturesque,  more  poetic, 
if  he  had  killed  him." 

"  It  was  a  very  close  call  for  Fred,"  resumed 
Charley  Sutton. 

"  Well,  it  was,"  said  Uncle  Larry ;  "  if  the 
Greek's  bullet  had  gone  an  inch  to  the  right,  it 
would  have  found  its  billet  in  Fred's  head.  Fred 
has  the  bullet  now  ;  I  dug  it  out  of  the  wall  and 
gave  it  to  him.  He  had  it  mounted  in  a  gold 
vulture's  claw,  and  he  wears  it  on  his  watch- 
chain. 

"Didn't  the  fellow  want  to  fight  again?" 
asked  Charley  Sutton,  for  whom  all  tales  of 
mortal  combat  had  a  morbid  fascination. 

"  Well,  he  wanted  to  fight,"  Uncle  Larry  went 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART.   go 

on;  "  he  was  full  of  fight,  but  his  friends  refused 
to  let  him,  and  at  last  they  had  to  take  him 
away.  He  passed  near  Fred  as  he  went  out,  and 
he  said,  '  We  have  met  twice,  and  twice  my  life 
has  been  in  your  hands ;  the  third  time,  your 
life  will  be  in  mine,  and  I  shall  not  spare  it, 
unless  I  can  find  a  punishment  worse  than 
death ! ' " 

"  He  was  a  cheerful  person  for  a  small  dinner 
party,"  said  Bob  White,  "  Let  us  rejoice  that  he 
does  not  belong  to  The  Full  Score." 

"  He  was  a  regular  old-time  villain,"  Charley 
Sutton  added.  "  '  Ha,  ha !  a  time  will  come  ! ' ' 

"  And  was  that  the  last  you  saw  of  him  ?  " 
Rudolph  Vernon  asked. 

"  I  never  saw  him  again,  and  I  am  quite  sure 
Fred  has  not,  either,"  answered  Larry. 

"  And  where  is  he  now  ?  "  urged  Charley 
Sutton. 

"  In  heaven,  perhaps,"  Uncle  Larry  replied, 
"  or  in  the  other  place.  I  don't  know,  and  as 
long  as  I  am  in  this  world,  I  don't  care." 

"  I  think  that  if  I  were  Fred,"  Rudolph  Vernon 
declared,  "  I  should  not  feel  safe  while  that  man 
was  alive." 

"Neither  should  I,"  assented  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley. 

"  I  should  always  be  afraid,"  continued  the 
poet,  "  that  sooner  or  later  that  Greek  would 
turn  up  and  stab  me  in  the  back." 


100  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  Fred  is  not  afraid,"  replied  Uncle  Larry, 
"  because  he  does  not  know  what  it  is  to  fear  any 
man.  He  is  superstitious,  you  know,  and  if  he 
fears  anything,  it  is  the  unknown.  Besides,  he  is 
something  of  a  fatalist,  and  he  is  inclined  to  cry 
Kismet — it  is  Fate !  " 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Charley  Sutton,  "  he 
must  think  sometimes  about  the  man  with  the 
Black  Heart.  A  fellow  never  could  forget  an 
experience  like  his  !  " 

"  And  Fred  does  think  of  it,"  rejoined  Rudolph 
Vernon ;  "  don't  you  remember  what  he  said 
to-day  at  dinner  before  Uncle  Larry  told  us  the 
story?  He  said  that  if  he  were  to  be  killed 
to-night,  or  if  he  were  to  disappear  mysteriously, 
his  death  or  his  disappearance  would  lie  at  the 
door  of  a  man  whose  life  he  had  saved." 

"  Surely,  you  do  not  think  the  Greek  would 
dare  to  follow  him  to  this  country  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley. 

"The  man's  a  Levantine,"  replied  Rudolph 
Vernon,  "  half  Greek  and  half  Corsican.  There 
is  no  limit  to  the  journey  he  might  take  to  accom 
plish  his  revenge." 

"  C 'est curieux !  c'est  tres curieux"  ventured  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley. 

"  I  say,  Uncle  Larry,"  Charley  Sutton  asked, 
"  when  was  this  duel  ?  " 

"  In  1878." 

"And   we  are  in   October,    1884 — six  years. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEART.    IOI 

Perhaps  by  this  time  the  man  with   the  Black 
Heart  is  dead." 

"  Perhaps  he  is,"  answered  Uncle  Larry,  as  his 
guests  rose  from  the  table  and  passed  into  the 
library ;  all  but  two  or  three,  who  had  begun  a 
discussion  on  aesthetics,  which  bade  fair  to  be 
interminable. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AFTER    DINNER. 

IN  the  library  they  found  Frederick  Olyphant 
seated  at  the  desk-table  in  the  centre  of  the 
room.  He  had  written  his  letter,  and  he  was 
engaged  in  sealing  the  envelope  with  wax,  which 
he  stamped  with  the  leaden  bullet  grasped  in  a 
golden  vulture's  claw.  Ever  since  he  had  worn 
the  miscarrying  messenger  of  death  as  a  charm 
on  his  watch-chain,  he  had  taken  pleasure  in 
using  it  as  a  seal.  It  gave  a  firm  impression  of  a 
hollow  sphere ;  and  it  was  at  once  simple  and 
unique,  two  qualities  which  the  artist  held  in 
the  highest  esteem. 

As  Laurence  Laughton  stood  by  the  broad, 
flat  desk,  Olyphant  looked  up  and  held  up  his 
letter.  "Would  the  faithful  Bridget  post  this 
for  me,  Uncle  Larry  ?  I  couldn't  rest  till  I  had 
written  it,  and  I'd  like  to  see  it  off  as  soon  as 
possible." 

"  Of  course  she  would,"  responded  the  host, 
touching  the  button  of  an  electric  bell,  which 
was  immediately  heard  to  tinkle  sharply  some 
where  in  the  dim  recesses  of  the  basement.  "  The 
102 


AFTER  DINNER. 


103 


faithful  Bridget  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  you, 
Fred,  and  she  will  run  to  the  corner  lamp-post 
with  it,  if  the  cook  and  the  waiters  have  gone, — 
and  I  suppose  they  have  by  this  time,  for  the 
faithful  Bridget  bundles  them  out  as  soon  as 
she  can." 

The  faithful  Bridget  was  the  chief  of  Uncle 
Larry's  household.  She  was  an  Irishwoman, 
now  long  past  middle  age,  who  had  come  to 
Laurence's  mother  thirty  years  before,  as  cook. 
She  ruled  the  house  with  a  mild  despotism 
under  which  Laughton  was  sometimes  restive. 
Although  she  had  two  assistants  to  aid  her  in  her 
household  labors,  she  still  prepared  the  few 
simple  meals  which  the  master  of  the  house  took 
at  home.  She  resented  not  a  little  the  intrusion 
of  the  professional  cooks  and  waiters  who  served 
the  more  elaborate  repasts  which  Laurence 
Laughton  offered  his  friends,  and  she  sent  them 
away  the  instant  that  their  work  was  done.  The 
faithful  Bridget  was  herself  indefatigable  and  she 
took  pride  in  her  housekeeping.  She  was  known 
to  most  of  the  frequenters  of  the  house,  for  she 
generally  opened  the  door  herself. 

As  she  came  into  the  library  in  answer  to 
Laughton's  ring,  she  was  greeted  with  a  chorus  : 
"  Hello,  Bridget,"  "  How  are  you,  my  aged 
darling  ?"  "  She  looks  younger  every  day,  so 
she  does  !  "  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  listened 
in  perturbed  surprise;  but  the  faithful  Bridget 


IO4 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


received  these  pleasantries  with  amiable  scorn. 
"  Good  evening  to  yez,  gintlemin,"  was  all  she 
said. 

"  Bridget,  Mr.  Olyphant  wants  to  know  if  it 
would  be  too  much  trouble  to  ask  you  to  post  a 
letter  for  him  before  you  go  to  bed  ?  "  asked  the 
master  of  the  house,  with  the  courtesy  he  always 
showed  to  servants. 

"  Sure  it's  no  trouble  at  all,"  answered  Bridget; 
"  and  it's  many  a  mile  I'd  walk  for  Mr.  Frederick, 
let  alone  going  to  the  corner  here  ! " 

"  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you,  indeed," 
said  Olyphant,  handing  her  the  letter. 

"  I'll  take  it  over  at  once,"  she  said,  "  and  then 
it's  going  to  bed  I  am.  These  dinners  and  these 
waiters  and  these  cooks  are  a-wearing  the  life 
out  of  me." 

As  she  withdrew  to  the  regions  below,  White 
said,  "  Larry,  you  are  under  petticoat  government! 
The  faithful  Bridget  rules  you  with  a  rod  of  iron. 
You  dare  not  say  your  soul  is  your  own  !  " 

"  What  man  may  say  that  ?  "  asked  Fred,  com 
ing  to  his  friend's  assistance. 

"  Whatman  is  bulldozed  by  a  faithful  Bridget?  " 
rejoined  White.  "  Why,  Uncle  Larry,  thou  art 
the  man.  Now,  I  would  not  allow  any  Bridget 
to  rule  my  roast  I  abjure  the  Hibernian.  When 
I  advertise  for  a  cook,  I  shall  add,  that,  like  the 
Government  of  these  United  States,  I  reserve  the 
right  to  reject  all  Bids." 


AFTER  DINNER. 


105 


Before  the  sudden  shower  of  groans  which 
greeted  this  merry  jest,  Poor  Bob  White  retreated 
into  the  parlor,  taking  with  him  Mr.  J.  Warren 
Payn.  They  opened  the  piano  and  betook 
themselves  to  music ;  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon- 
deley  joined  them  ;  he  had  written  the  words  of 
a  sweetly  sentimental  French  song,  and  Mr.  J. 
Warren  Payn  had  set  them  to  music  for  him. 

"  I'm  not  quite  satisfied  with  the  accompani 
ment  yet,"  said  the  composer,  "  but  I  will  try  it 
for  you." 

"  You  may  venture  the  experimentum  in  corpore 
vilo,"  responded  Mr. Hobson-Cholmondeley,  with 
scholarly  jocularity. 

"  That's  Latin,  I  take  it,"  remarked  Mr.  Robert 
White,  "  for  '  try  it  on  a  dog ' ;  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Really,"  replied  the  little  Englishman,  with  a 
faint  smile,  rubbing  his  hands  together  nervously, 
"  you  have  so  many  of  these  Americanisms  that 
I  can't  pretend  to  keep  up  with  them  all." 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure,"  the  composer  continued, 
as  he  played  the  introduction,  "  that  the  air  I 
have  written  is  absolutely  original." 

"  Probably  it  isn't,"  White  interrupted :  "  now- 
a-days  nothing  is  original  except  sin.  And  in 
music,  I  believe  plagiarism  is  not  a  sin." 

"  Let  us  hope  it  is  not  an  unpardonable  sin," 
said  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,  uneasily. 

One  or  two  other  members  of  The  Full  Score, 
hearing  the  first  notes  of  the  new  song,  lounged 


IO6  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

from  the  library  into  the  parlor  and  joined  the 
little  group  about  the  piano.  The  door  which 
opened  into  the  parlor  from  the  hall  folded  back 
against  the  piano,  and  as  this  inconvenienced 
White,  he  closed  it,  and  made  more  room  about 
the  instrument. 

There  was  another  little  knot  of  men  in  the 
dining-room,  where  the  discussion  of  aestheticism 
had  drifted  slowly  into  a  debate  on  international 
manners. 

"  My  definition  of  politeness  is  very  simple," 
Rudolph  Vernon  was  declaring,  writh  emphasis ; 
"  and  yet  it  is  comprehensive.  Politeness  is  the 
outward  and  visible  sign  of  an  inward  and 
spiritual  grace." 

"  Of  course,  but  what  do  you  suggest  as  a 
means  of  grace  ?  "  asked  Eliphalet  Duncan,  who, 
as  a  half-Scotchman,  took  a  keen  interest  in 
considering  the  minor  points  of  theological 
metaphysics. 

"  But  that  definition  won't  help  you  any," 
ventured  Charley  Sutton,  "  when  you  are  hav 
ing  high  words  and  passing  low  language  with 
the  driver  of  a  growler  in  London  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  there's  no  policeman  in 
sight." 

"  There  is  no  international  standard  of  manners, 
and  it  is  unfortunate,"  continued  the  poet  "Every 
people  has  its  own  conventionalities.  Now  the 
beauty  of  my  definition  is  that  it  takes  a  lofty 


AFTER  DINNER. 


107 


view,  that  it  soars  above  these  lesser  and  often 
very  little  points  of  difference,  and  that  it  goes 
right  to  the  essentials." 

"  It  is  hard  to  frame  a  definition  of  an  English 
gentleman,"  Eliphalet  Duncan  remarked,  "  which 
does  not  fit  an  American  tramp  quite  as  well.  It 
must  turn  on  abstinence  from  work." 

Rudolph  Vernon  quoted  : 

"  When  Adam  delve  and  Eve  span 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman  ?  " 

"  I  like  Davy  Crockett's  definition  best,"  added 
Charley  Button.  "  He  said  General  Jackson  was 
a  perfect  gentleman  ;  he  set  the  whiskey -jug  on  the 
table  and  looked  the  other  way!" 

"  In  England  they  think  not  only  that  a  man 
is  no  gentleman,  but  that  he  is  going  to  the  devil 
if  he  does  not  wear  a  high  hat  on  Sunday,"  said 
Eliphalet  Duncan. 

"  And  in  France  a  man  wears  a  dress-coat  in 
the  morning  to  a  wedding,  and  he  puts  on  white 
kids  when  he  goes  to  '  propose.'  "  This  contribu 
tion  to  sociological  science  came  from  Charley 
Sutton. 

"  Who  was  it  said,"  Rudolph  Vernon  asked, 
"  that  it  was  only  the  very  highest  civilization 
which  permits  the  high  hat,  the  glass  eye  and 
the  false  tooth?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  all  nations  cannot  dwell 
together  in  unity,"  Charley  Sutton  suggested; 


I08  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  let's  be  a  happy  family,  as  the  monkey  said  to 
the  parrot." 

"  In  my  experience,  now,"  Rudolph  Vernon 
began,  "  I  give  it  to  you  for  what  it  is  worth — " 

"  If  you  are  going  to  give  us  your  experience, 
I  don't  object,"  interrupted  Charley  Sutton,  "but 
do  not  offer  to  lend  it  to  us.  I  have  found  that 
experience  is  like  a  dress-coat ;  it  never  fits  any 
body  but  the  owner." 

In  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  the  little  knot 
of  disputants  in  the  dining-room,  and  the  little 
group  about  the  piano  in  the  parlor,  gradually 
absorbed  all  the  members  of  The  Full  Score, 
except  Frederick  Olyphant  and  Laurence 
Laughton,  who  were  left  alone  in  the  library, 
sitting  before  the  hearth,  whereon  a  cheery  blaze 
of  hickory  sparkled  and  sang. 

"  You  are  out  of  sorts  this  evening,  aren't  you  ?" 
asked  Laughton,  with  the  fatherly  interest  he 
always  felt  toward  Olyphant. 

"  I  am,  indeed,"  Fred  answered,  quickly;  "  how 
could  I  help  feeling  miserable  when  I — "  He 
checked  himself  suddenly,  flushed  a  little  and 
said,  "But  I  have  made  amends  now,  and  I  shall 
sleep  better  for  it." 

Laughton  had  no  desire  to  pry  into  his  friend's 
secrets ;  but  he  could  not  help  suspecting  that 
the  sending  of  the  letter  had  given  relief  to  his 
friend's  unwonted  excitement. 

"  That  is,"  continued  Olyphant,  "  if  I  sleep  at 


AFTER  DINNER. 

all,  which  I  doubt.  My  mind  is  easier  now, 
but  my  body  rebels.  I  have  a  dull  pain  in  my 
head,  and  I  feel  a  feverish  irritation." 

"  You  have  been  driving  your  machinery  too 
hard,"  said  Uncle  Larry.  "  How  is  the  picture 
getting  on  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  '  The  Sharpness  of  Death '  ?  " 
the  artist  asked  ;  "  it's  nearly  done  ;  in  fact,  it  is 
quite  done,  if  I  could  only  convince  myself  of  it." 

"  Then  take  my  advice.  Drop  it  for  ten  days ; 
spend  a  week  in  the  Adirondacks.  To-morrow 
is  the  first  of  November,  and  it's  perhaps  a  little 
late  for  camping  out,  but  it  won't  hurt  two  old 
campaigners  like  us." 

"  Would  you  go  with  me  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

Olyphant  knew  that  Laughton  had  important 
and  pressing  engagements  early  in  November, 
and  he  was  touched  with  the  willingness  to  lay 
aside  business  at  the  call  of  friendship. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Uncle  Larry,"  he 
said,  "and  I  should  be  delighted  to  go  with  you 
but — but  I  cannot  leave  New  York  for  a  minute 
now." 

"  Your  work  will  be  all  the  better  for  your 
vacation." 

"Oh,  it  is  not  my  work — it  is — well,  I  cannot 
tell  you  why  I  must  not  go.  I  hope  to  be  able  to 
tell  you  soon.  But  there  is  no  use  in  talking  to 
me  about  a  trip  out  of  town  ;  I  am  in  New  York 


1 10  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

now,  and  I  shall  stay  in  New  York  till  the  spring 
and  then — well,  then,  something  will  happen,  I 
hope ! " 

"  Beware  how  you  bend  the  bow  till  it  break!" 
Uncle  Larry  suggested,  with  kindly  interest  in 
his  tone.  "  All  work  and  no  play  isn't  a  good 
scheme  of  living  for  any  man." 

"  Oh,  I  have  play  enough,"  returned  Fred, 
"  and  I  do  not  suppose  I  work  so  very  hard, 
either.  I  wonder  sometimes  whether  I  have 
accomplished  anything  at  all,  or  whether  I  ever 
shall  accomplish  anything.  We  little  men  of 
to-day  toil  on,  each  in  our  little  groove  ;  we  dig 
each  in  our  special  little  trench,  throwing  up  the 
earth  at  the  sides,  until  we  half  believe  we  are 
twice  as  deep  as  we  are.  I  stand  up  in  my  little 
ditch  sometimes  and  look  out  over  my  little  mounds 
at  the  broad  world  around  me,  and  I  wonder 
whether  the  result  of  my  work  has  not  been  to 
hide  me  from  the  rest  of  the  people.  And  worse 
yet,  I  wonder  whether  the  work  itself  was  worth 
doing,  and  whether  I  have  done  it  as  well  as  I 
could,  and  whether  I  have  put  into  it  the  best  I 
had  to  give ;  and  then,  when  I  look  at  the  things  I 
have  painted,  and  when  I  acknowledge  that  I  have 
done  my  best,  I  feel  what  a  shallow  trifler  I  am, 
straying  along  the  margin  of  the  limitless  universe." 

"  I  suppose  every  man  has  moments  of 
profound  discouragement  and  self-questioning," 
said  Laughton,  gravely. 


AFTER  DINNER.  !  i  i 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  Fred.  "  Do  you 
believe  other  men  are  conscious  that  they  had 
done  their  best,  and  then  wonder  whether  their 
best  were  worth  doing  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  Uncle  Larry  answered. 

"  Then  I  have  partners  in  my  misery,"  Fred 
rejoined.  "  That  is  some  comfort." 

"  Just  look  at  that  fire,"  said  Uncle  Larry, 
starting  forward  to  reconstruct  it.  "  Only  a 
minute  or  two  ago,  it  was  blazing  as  merrily  as 
may  be,  and  now  it  is  as  despondent  as  you 
are.  A  hickory  fire  on  a  modern  hearth  needs 
as  many  delicate  attentions  as  the  latest  fine  lady, 
and  it  puts  on  as  many  airs,  and  is  as  variable 
and  as  moody.  Rudolph  Vernon  could  write  a 
poem  on  the  total  depravity  of  the  hickory, — 
although  as  the  hickory  is  fore-ordained  to  the 
flames,  I  don't  know  what  else  was  to  have  been 
expected  from  it."  Uncle  Larry  knelt  by  the 
hearth  as  he  turned  a  glowing  stick  between  the 
andirons  and  lifted  two  others  across  it.  Then 
two  or  three  judicious  whiffs  of  the  bellows  blew 
them  into  a  blaze.  As  Laugh  ton  saw  the  success 
of  his  skillful  efforts,  he  felt  the  pride  which  is 
the  chief  characteristic  of  all  fire-makers  from 
the  time  of  Prometheus  to  the  present.  "  There," 
he  said,  "  there,  Fred ;  look  at  that !  There's  a 
blaze  for  you  !  There's  a  fiery  furnace  to  roast 
the  blue  devils  out  of  you.  What  do  you  say  to 
that?" 


1 1 2  THE  LAST  MEE  TING. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  restored  the  bellows  to 
its  pendent  place  beside  the  tongs.  Not  hearing 
from  Fred  any  response  to  his  queries,  he  turned 
to  see  the  cause  of  his  silence.  The  chair  in 
which  Olyphant  had  been  sitting  was  empty. 
Suddenly  it  struck  Laughton  that  as  he  had 
dropped  a  heavy  stick  of  hickory  on  the  and 
irons,  he  had  heard  Fred  say,  "  I'll  be  back 
in  a  minute."  He  recalled  this  dimly  and 
doubtfully;  and,  at  best,  it  was  a  vague  impression. 
He  wondered  why  Fred  should  leave  him  in  the 
middle  of  an  interesting  chat,  breaking  off 
abruptly  their  discussion  of  the  reason  of  things. 
It  was  not  like  Fred  to  do  that.  He  made 
sure  that  the  painter  had  joined  the  men  in 
the  dining-room.  Perhaps  Fred  had  felt  a 
recurrence  of  his  oppression,  and  had  gone  into 
the  dining-room  for  a  glass  of  water  or  a 
drop  of  a  more  stimulating  beverage.  There 
was  no  reason  why  Laughton  should  follow 
Olyphant  about  from  room  to  room,  although  he 
confessed  to  himself  a  secret  uneasiness,  due  in 
part  to  Fred's  morbid  despondency,  and  still 
more  to  his  physical  oppression.  Laughton 
feared  that  the  artist  had  overworked  himself, 
and  that  he  had  over-worried  about  his  work. 
Fred  was  a  sturdy  fellow,  and  he  was  in  excellent 
condition,  but  there  is  a  strain  which  will  crush 
the  strongest  and  the  soundest. 

Uncle  Larry  had  been  standing  with  his  back 


AFTER  DINNER. 

to  the  fire  as  he  made  these  reflections.  Almost 
involuntarily  he  walked  to  the  wide  doorway 
which  connected  the  library  and  the  dining-room. 
There  the  little  group  of  talkers  still  clustered 
about  one  end  of  the  dining-room ;  and  from 
aestheticism  and  politeness  the  discussion  had 
drifted  to  temperance. 

"  I  don't  take  any  stock  in  the  Blue  Ribbon 
crowd,"  Charley  Sutton  was  saying.  "  They 
think  drink  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  deviltry  in 
the  world.  Now,  that,  if  you  will  excuse  the  poor 
oun,  is  an  argument  post  hock  ergo  propter  hock" 

"  Let  him  die  a  lingering  death,"  cried  the 
horror-stricken  Rudolph  Vernon.  "  Hale  him 
away  to  the  deepest  dungeon  neath  the  castle 
moat.  Two  deaths  were  not  punishment  enough 
for  one  pun." 

"  Have  you  such  a  thing  as  a  dungeon  in  the 
house,  Uncle  Larry  ?  "  Eliphalet  Duncan  queried, 
as  he  looked  up  and  saw  his  host  standing 
beside  him. 

"  Where  is  Fred  ? "  Laughton  asked,  too 
pre-occupied  to  hear  or  to  heed  the  question  put 
to  him. 

"  He  hasn't  been  in  here  since  dinner," 
answered  Duncan.  "  I  thought  he  was  in  the 
library  talking  to  you." 

"  So  he  was  until  a  few  minutes  ago.     Then 
he  slipped  out,  and  I  supposed  he  might  have 
come  in  here,  or  at  least  passed  through." 
8 


114 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"  Of  course,"  replied  Duncan,  "  he  might  have 
been  seen  in  here,  but  we  haven't  seen  him  at  all ; 
and  he  could  not  have  passed  through  the  room 
because  I  closed  the  door  into  the  hall  just  after 
dinner  on  account  of  the  draught,  and  it  has  not 
been  opened  since." 

Laughton  saw  that  the  little  group  was 
gathered  at  the  end  of  the  dinner  table,  very  near 
the  door  into  the  hall,  and  they  were  so  seated 
that  even  had  the  door  been  open  no  one  could 
have  passed  them  to  go  out  without  disturbing 
the  whole  party.  He  knew,  too,  that  the  door, 
which  was  a  sliding  one,  was  a  little  out  of  repair, 
and  moved  slowly  and  with  a  harsh  noise.  He 
felt  sure,  therefore,  that  Fred  had  not  gone  out 
through  the  dining-room.  He  remained  a  few 
minutes  in  humorous  chat.  Then  he  began  to 
wonder  why  Fred  did  not  return,  if  he  really 
had  said,  "  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute."  As  soon 
as  he  could  break  loose  from  the  jolly  circle  in 
the  dining-room  Laughton  walked  through  the 
library  into  the  parlor,  expecting  to  see  Fred 
among  those  gathered  about  the  piano. 

But  Olyphant  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

As  Laughton  entered  the  room,  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley  was  singing  the  last  stanza  of  a 
ballad  of  Heine's.  When  the  music  ceased, 
Uncle  Larry  asked  Robert  White,  who  was  lean 
ing  against  the  door  into  the  hall,  "  Where  is 
Fred?" 


AFTER  DINNER.  1 1 5 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Poor  Bob  White, 
facetiously ;  "  I  haven't  got  him  concealed  about 
my  person.  You  may  search  me,  if  you  like, 
and  I  will  submit  to  the  indignity." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  he  went  out  ? "  was 
Laughton's  next  question. 

"  Has  he  gone  out?  "  returned  White,  seriously, 
seeing,  by  Laughton's  look,  that  jocularity  was 
misplaced  at  that  moment. 

"  Why,  didn't  he  pass  through  here  to  go  out 
into  the  hall  a  few  minutes  ago  ?  "  asked  Uncle 
Larry,  with  great  surprise. 

"  No,"  answered  White.  "  Nobody  has  gone 
through  this  door,  since  we  began  to  have  a  little 
music,  for  I  have  been  leaning  against  it  all  the 
time.  And  beside,  Fred  hasn't  even  been  in 
here  since  dinner." 

Then  where  had  he  gone  ?  And  how  had  he 
left  the  library  ? 

Laurence  Laughton  opened  the  door  against 
which  White  had  been  leaning,  and  called  loudly, 
"  Fred  !  Fred !  "  Then  after  a  pause  he  called 
again,  "  Fred !  " 

But  there  was  no  answer  to  his  cry. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    STRANGE   COINCIDENCE. 

MR.  HOBSON-CHOLMONDELEY  noted 
the  expression  of  puzzled  surprise  on  Lau 
rence  Laughton's  face,  as  he  closed  the  door 
into  the  hall.  "  Qu'est-ce  qu'il  y  a  ?  "  he  asked, 
at  once.  "  Has  anything  happened  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Uncle  Larry ; 
"  perhaps,  and  again,  perhaps  not  But  the  fact 
is  that  Olyphant  has  disappeared." 

"  Why  shouldn't  he  ? "  White  demanded. 
"  This  is  a  free  country,  and  the  constitution 
guarantees  to  every  man  the  right  to  disappear 
whenever  he  likes." 

"  Is  there  anything  strange  in  Olyphant's 
going  away,  that  you  seem  so  put  out,  Uncle 
Larry,"  asked  Mr.  J.  Warren  Payn,  turning  about 
on  the  piano-stool. 

"  There  is  nothing  so  strange  in  his  leaving 
us,"  replied  Larry,  doubtfully ;  "  I  half  expected 
him  to  go  early,  as  he  was  not  feeling  well." 

"  Well,  then,"  began  White. 

"  But  what  is  strange,"  continued  Laughton, 
116 


A  STKANGE  COINCIDENCE 


II/ 


"  is  the  method  of  his  going.  In  fact,  I  don't  see 
how  he  got  out  at  all !  " 

"  I  suppose  he  walked  out,"  White  suggested, 
"just  as  we  all  walked  in,  through  the  door." 

"  But  the  doors  were  closed,"  said  Larry,  with 
a  little  impatience. 

"  This  door  was  closed,"  White  admitted ;  "  I 
can  bear  witness  to  the  fact  that  he  did  not  go 
out  through  this  room,  but  there's  a  door  from 
the  dining-room  into  the  hall,  isn't  there  ?  " 

"  That  door  was  shut  too,"  returned  Larry, 
"  and  Sutton  and  Duncan  were  sitting  so  close 
to  it  that  nobody  could  get  by." 

"  I  am  ready  to  take  my  Alfred-David  that 
he  did  not  make  his  exit  by  this  door,"  repeated 
White. 

"  So  am  I,"  declared  Mr.  J.  Warren  Payn. 

"  Moi  aussi,"  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley 
added. 

"  Let's  take  a  look  at  the  other  door,"  White 
suggested,  and  the  rest  of  the  party  followed 
him  through  the  library  into  the  dining-room. 

As  they  entered,  Charley  Sutton  looked  up 
and  asked. 

"  What  was  Fred  doing  in  the  other  room, 
Uncle  Larry  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Uncle  Larry  ; 
"  because  he  wasn't  there  at  all." 

"  If  he  wasn't  there,  where  was  he  ?  "  returned 
the  young  Californian. 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  That's  just  what  we  are  trying  to  find  out," 
rejoined  White.  "  Have  you  and  Duncan  been 
sitting  just  as  you  are  for  long  ?  " 

"  We  have  been  here  nearly  an  hour,  I  take  it," 
Duncan  answered. 

"  Without  moving  ?  " 

"  Without  a  move,"  said  Sutton. 

"  And  Fred  didn't  go  out  through  that  door  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  he  did  not,"  replied  Duncan. 

"  Who  said  he  did  ?  "  Charley  Sutton  added. 

"  You  see,  it  is  exactly  as  I  told  you,"  said 
Uncle  Larry. 

Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  gazed  about  the 
dining-room  in  wonder,  and  remarked,  "  It  is 
most  extraordinary,  most  extraordinary,  indeed." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  suggest  that  Fred  has 
vanished  ?  "  asked  Rudolph  Vernon — "  gone  and 
left  no  sign  ?  " 

"  That  is  exactly  what  he  has  done,"  Uncle 
Larry  explained.  "He  was  talking  with  me  here 
in  the  library.  Then  I  leant  forward  to  rearrange 
the  fire.  When  I  sat  down  again,  Fred  was  gone. 
I  have  an  indistinct  impression  that  while  I  was 
attending  to  the  hickory  I  heard  him  say,  '  I'll  be 
back  in  a  minute  !  '  but  I  cannot  be  sure  about 
this  ;  I  was  not  paying  attention  to  him  just  then, 
and  I  recall  his  words,  if  they  were  his  words, 
only  in  the  vaguest  way.  When  he  did  not  return, 
I  came  for  him  here  in  the  dining-room  ;  but  he 
was  not  here,  and  you  said  he  had  not  been  here." 


A  STRANGE  COINCIDENCE. 


119 


"  Not  since  dinner,"  Vernon  declared. 

"  Then  I  went  into  the  parlor,"  continued  Uncle 
Larry,  "  and  he  had  not  been  there,  either.  And 
if  he  has  not  left  these  rooms  through  the  parlor- 
door  or  the  dining-room  door,  how  has  he  left 
them  ?  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  He  hasn't  taken  French  leave,  you  know — 
thawed  and  resolved  himself  into  adieu,  has  he?  " 
Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  ventured  to  inquire ; 
but  most  of  those  present  took  a  serious  interest 
in  Olyphant's  disappearance,  and  therefore  ignored 
the  little  Englishman's  little  joke. 

Robert  White  had  been  standing  on  the  rug 
before  the  fire  in  the  library,  the  spot  on  which 
Fred  Olyphant  had  last  been  seen.  He  was 
considering  carefully  the  means  of  exit  from  the 
three  rooms  :  "  If  he  had  opened  the  windows 
in  either  the  parlor  or  the  dining-room,  we 
should  have  seen  him,  and  heard  him,  and  felt 
the  draught.  And  I  know  he  did  not  cross  the 
parlor  to  go  to  the  window." 

"  And  I  am  as  sure  that  he  did  not  cross  the 
dining-room  to  go  to  the  window,"  declared 
Rudolph  Vernon. 

Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  took  his  stand 
on  the  rug  by  the  side  of  White ;  he  was 
rubbing  his  hands  together  gently,  and  he  wore 
a  puzzled  smile  as  he  strenuously  applied  his 
logical  faculty  to  the  solution  of  the  problem. 
"  I  suppose  there  isn't  a  door  going  into  the 


120  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

hall  from  this  library,  now?"  he  queried,  insinu 
atingly. 

"  But  there  is ! "  answered  White ;  "  of  course, 
there  is  ;  and  it  is  concealed  behind  that  curtain 
there,  across  the  opening  in  the  bookcase 
opposite  us." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry, 
"  that  you  need  bother  about  that  little  door, 
because  it  is  locked,  and  the  key  is  up  stairs  in 
my  room." 

"  Let's  see,  if  it  is  locked  now,"  suggested 
White,  who  was  a  true  journalist,  and  who 
therefore  had  a  full  share  of  the  detective 
faculty. 

He  crossed  the  library,  and  lifting  the  light 
curtain  which  masked  the  passage  through  the 
bookcase,  he  tried  to  open  the  door  into  the  hall. 
It  was  locked. 

Perhaps  a  diagram  of  the  first  floor  of  Lau 
rence  Laughton's  house  showing  the  arrangement 
of  the  parlor,  library  and  dining-room,  will  make 
the  peculiar  conditions  of  the  puzzle  which  the 
members  of  The  Full  Score  were  trying  to  solve 
a  little  clearer  to  the  reader. 

"This  door  is  locked  now,"  said  White;  "but 
was  it  locked  a  little  while  ago  ?  " 

"Is  it  locked  now?"  echoed  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley. 

"  It  is  always  kept  locked,"  Uncle  Larry 
answered. 


A  STRANGE  COINCIDENCE. 


121 


"  Hasn't  it  been  open  at  all  ? "   persisted  the 
journalist. 

FIFTH  AVENUE 


w 


W 


PARLOR 


r 

10   LIBRARY  ° 


E 

D 

ac 

H 


DINING  ROOM 


D" 

VESTIBULE 


HALL 


\  C 


WWW 


W— Windows.     F— Fire-places.     P— Piano.     S— Sideboard.     T— Tables. 

D — Doors.     D7 — Little  door  in  bookcase  of  Library  hidden  behind 

curtain.     B-C — Bookcases.     D" — Street  door. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Eliphalet  Duncan,  "  it  must 
have  been  open  some  time  or  other." 


122  THE  LAST  MEE  TING. 

"  It  was  unlocked  early  in  the  week,"  the  host 
declared,  "  when  the  faithful  Bridget  had  this 
floor  cleaned.  I  found  the  door  open,  and  told 
Bridget  to  lock  it  up  and  to  leave  the  key  in  my 
bureau,  where  I  always  keep  it.  As  the  door  is 
locked  now,  I  do  not  doubt  that  the  key  is  in 
my  room." 

"  Voulez-vous  que  je  vous  dise  ? "  Mr.  Hob- 
son-Cholmondeley  remarked  in  his  deep  voice ; 
"  I  believe  Mr.  Olyphant  went  out  through  this 
little  door." 

"  But  it  is  locked,"  retorted  Charley  Sutton ; 
"  you  don't  think  Fred  went  out  through  the 
key-hole,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  he  went  out,  or  why  he 
went  out,"  persisted  the  Englishman,  "  but 
directly  I  saw  that  little  door,  I  made  sure  that 
he  went  out  that  way." 

"  But  I  have  the  key  which  locked  it — I'll 
bring  it  down,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  and  he  opened 
the  door  from  the  parlor  into  the  hall.  A  sud 
den  exclamation  from  him  brought  the  others 
rapidly  after  him. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Charley  Sutton. 

"  Have  you  a  clue  ?  "  White  queried. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry, 
"  but  Fred's  hat  is  gone." 

"  There's  his  coat,"  remarked  Rudolph  Ver- 
non. 

"  I   see   his   coat,"  replied  Uncle  Larry,  "  but 


A  STRANGE  COINCIDENCE. 


123 


his  hat  has  gone.  It  is  an  odd-looking  head 
piece  that  no  one  but  Fred  would  dare  to  wear, 
and  it  is  not  here.  He  always  hung  it  on  one 
special  hook — and  this  is  the  hook  and  there  is 
nothing  on  it." 

"  If  he  took  his  hat  ?  "  asked  Vernon,  thought 
fully,  "  why  shouldn't  he  take  his  coat  too  ?  " 

Robert  White  said  nothing.  He  went  straight 
to  the  door  in  the  hall  leading  into  the  library, 
and  tried  it  from  the  outside.  Beyond  all  doubt 
it  was  locked,  and  the  key  had  been  taken  out. 

"  That  isn't  half  as  puzzling  as  to  guess  how 
he  got  out  of  the  library,"  responded  Charley 
Sutton.  "  We  know  he  didn't  go  through  the 
dining-room;  Rudolph  here  says  he  didn't 
pass  through  the  parlor ;  and  the  only  door  in 
the  library  is  locked.  Now,  how  the  devil  did 
he  get  out  ?  It  beats  the  King's  puzzle  with 
the  apple-dumplings." 

Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,  with  the  pugna 
cious  self-assertion  of  a  little  man,  said :  "  He 
came  through  that  door  in  the  book-case.  I'll 
lay  you  odds  he  did !  " 

"  Then,"  returned  Uncle  Larry,  coming  down 
stairs  again  with  the  key  in  his  hand,  "  then  he 
must  have  gone  up  through  the  chimney  to  get 
the  key,  for  I  found  it  where  I  said  it  was,  in 
the  top  drawer  of  my  bureau." 

"  Perhaps  he  had  a  key  of  his  own,  you 
know,"  suggested  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley 


124 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


mildly,  slightly  staggered  by  the  evidence  of  the 
key,  and  yet  clinging  to  his  theory  with  the 
utmost  pertinacity. 

Charley  Sutton  laughed.  "  Do  you  take  Fred 
Olyphant  for  a  burglar,"  he  asked,  "  coming  here 
to  Uncle  Larry's  with  a  bunch  of  false  keys  in 
his  pocket?  " 

"  He  came  out  through  that  little  door,"  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley  declared  again,  as  calmly 
and  firmly  as  a  British  square  would  receive  a 
charge  of  French  cavalry.  "  C'est  mon  dernier 
mot" 

"There's  no  use  trying  to  convert  Chum," 
acknowledged  Charley  Sutton  ;  "  when  he's  sot, 
he's  sot,  and  there's  an  end." 

"With  some  men,"  Mr.  Rudolph  Vernon 
remarked,  judicially,  "  argument  is  like  a  ham 
mer  :  it  only  drives  in  their  false  opinions  more 
firmly." 

"  Let  me  see  the  key,  Uncle  Larry,"  asked 
White,  and  Laughton  handed  it  to  him.  He 
examined  it  carefully ;  but  it  told  no  secrets,  if  it 
had  any  to  tell.  He  put  it  in  the  lock,  and  it 
turned  easily  and  the  door  opened.  From  the 
hall  one  could  not  see  into  the  library  because 
of  the  curtain  which  hung  across  the  opening 
in  the  bookcase.  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley 
went  back  into  the  library  through  the  parlor, 
and  lifting  up  the  curtain  of  this  little  door,  he 
passed  out  into  the  hall.  "  Voila"  he  said, 


A  STRANGE  COINCIDENCE. 


125 


"  he  left  the  library  by  this  door.  Ce  riest  pas 
plus  difficile  que  fa/" 

"  But  the  door  was  locked  !  "  Charley  Sutton 
cried.  "  Do  you  think  Fred  was  an  Esoteric 
Buddhist,  and  that  he  dematerialized  himself 
and  went  plumb  through  the  black-walnut 
panels  of  the  door  ?  " 

"  The  door  may  not  have  been  locked,"  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley  reiterated,  "  or  he  may 
have  had  a  key, — I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  But  I 
feel  it  in  my  bones,  you  know,  that  he  passed 
through  that  door,  just  like  I  did  a  minute 
ago." 

Here  White  surprised  the  company  by  appear 
ing  in  the  doorway  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
bearing  a  candle  and  examining  the  carpet. 

"  Trying  to  pick  up  the  trail  ?  "  asked  Charley 
Sutton,  sarcastically. 

"  Exactly  so,"  answered  White,  rising  to  his 
feet;  "  I  thought  I  might  find  a  clue — but  there 
is  nothing."  He  set  down  the  candle  and  stood 
for  a  moment  in  thought.  Then  he  looked  care 
fully  up  and  down  the  hall  and  along  the  stair 
case.  Suddenly  his  face  brightened,  and  he  took 
three  quick  strides,  which  brought  him  to  the 
door  of  the  vestibule. 

"  Got  it  ?  "  asked  Charley  Sutton. 

"  Perhaps,"  was  the  answer.  "  Just  look 
here ! " 

The   members   of   The   Full   Score  crowded 


126  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

around  the  journalist  as  he  stood  at  the  end  of 
the  hall. 

"  This  inside  door  is  not  shut  tight,"  he  said. 

"That's  so,"  Charley  Sutton  cried;  "  it's  ajar, 
a  good  half  inch,  too  !  " 

"  What  does  that  prove  ?  "  Vernon  inquired. 

"  It  proves  nothing,"  answered  White,  "  but  it 
fits  into  a  theory  of  mine." 

"  Out  with  your  theory  !  " 

"  It  is  slight  and  incomplete,  but  you  shall 
have  it  for  what  it  is  worth.  Fred  was  not  feel 
ing  well,  so  Uncle  Larry  told  us — " 

"  He  complained  of  an  oppression  in  the  head," 
explained  Laughton,  who  had  been  listening 
silently  and  sadly  to  the  queries  and  conjectures 
of  his  guests.  An  expression  in  his  face 
seemed  to  indicate  that  he  took  the  matter  to 
heart  more  than  the  others,  and  that  he  thought 
it  more  serious. 

"  He  had  an  oppression  in  the  head,"  White 
continued,  "  and  he  felt  the  need  of  fresh  air, 
which  might  make  him  feel  better.  While  Uncle 
Larry  was  making  the  fire,  he  slipped  out  into 
the  hall—" 

"  But  how  ?  "  asked  Vernon. 

"  How  did  he  get  out  ?  "  cried  Charley  Sutton. 

"  Through  the  little  door  in  the  library,"  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley  repeated,  deliberately. 

"  There  I  am  puzzled,"  White  went  on  ;  "  I  do 
not  know  how  he  got  out  of  the  library.  I  can- 


A  STRANGE  COINCIDENCE.  I2;r 

not  even  guess,  But  that  he  did  get  out  some 
how  is  certain,  for  he  was  in  the  library  and  he 
is  there  no  longer.  Once  out  here  in  the  hall, 
he  took  his  hat." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  was  there  at  all  ? "  asked 
Duncan. 

"  Yes,"  responded  White,  "  for  I  remember 
seeing  it  on  its  customary  hook  as  I  came  in. 
He  felt  an  oppression,  he  needed  air,  he  took 
his  hat  and  he  stepped  to  the  front  door.  As  he 
did  not  intend  to  go  home,  but  only  to  stand  on 
the  steps  for  a  minute  or  two,  he  did  not  put  on 
his  overcoat,  and  he  left  the  inner  door  ajar  that 
he  might  come  back  without  ringing." 

"  Then  he  may  be  on  the  steps  now,"  Vernon 
suggested. 

"  Of  course  he  may  be,  but  I  doubt  it,"  White 
responded,  opening  the  inner  door  and  passing 
into  the  vestibule  He  tried  to  pry  open  the 
street-door,  without  touching  the  knob,  to  see  if 
that  also  had  been  left  ajar.  But  it  was  firmly 
closed.  Having  made  sure  of  this,  the  journalist 
opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  upon  the  stoop. 
There  was  no  one  there.  The  chilly  azure  radiance 
of  the  electric  light  illumined  the  deserted  avenue. 
Scarcely  any  one  was  in  sight  except  a  policeman, 
leisurely  walking  down  on  the  opposite  side,  swing 
ing  his  club  jauntily,  and  closing  the  area-gates. 

"  He  isn't  here,"  said  Charley  Sutton,  following 
White  out  on  the  stoop. 


!  2 8  THE  LAST  MEE  TING. 

"  No  ! "  answered  the  journalist,  gravely,  "  and 
I  hardly  expected  to  find  him  here." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  the  Californian.  "  Don't 
you  take  stock  in  your  own  theory  ?  " 

"  My  theory  only  accounted  for  his  going  to 
the  door ;  it  did  not  pretend  to  explain  the  reason 
that  he  did  not  return." 

"  Perhaps  he  changed  his  mind  and  went 
home." 

"  Perhaps."     This  was  said  doubtfully. 

"  You  don't  think  so  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  White,  "  I  do  not.  Fred  would 
not  have  gone  without  his  overcoat ;  he  was  too 
old  a  campaigner  to  run  risks ;  he  had  had 
too  many  real  hardships  to  invent  new  ones, 
and  it  would  be  a  hardship  to  go  without  an 
overcoat  on  a  night  as  cold  as  this,  and  after  so 
sudden  a  fall  of  temperature.  And,  more  than 
that,  Fred  would  not  have  left  us  without  a 
word.  That  is  not  like  him." 

"  Then  what  do  you  think  ?  "  asked  Rudolph 
Vernon,  who  had  joined  them  on  the  stoop. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  think  at  all." 

"Are  you  afraid  some  harm  has  come  to 
Fred?"  inquired  Charley  Sutton. 

"  Why  else  should  he  not  have  come  back  ?  " 
returned  White. 

"After  all,"  retorted  Charley,  "we  are  not 
sure  that  he  came  out ;  that's  only  your  theory." 

"  That's  all,"  admitted  White. 


A  STRANGE  COINCIDENCE.  I2g 

"And  even  if  he  did  come  out  here,"  con 
tinued  the  Californian,  "  he  may  have  gone 
home." 

"  True,"  admitted  White  again ;  "  he  may  have 
done  so.  But, — "  and  he  paused  in  doubt 

"Well?" 

"  But  I  do  not  think  so." 

"  Then  what  can  have  happened  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

Nothing  was  said  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
Rudolph  Vernon,  who  had  stepped  to  the  outer 
edge  of  the  stoop,  waved  his  hand  to  the  heavens 
and  said,  "  See  the  majestic  sadness  of  the  solemn 
night;  is  it  not  superb  ?  I  never  stand  out  in  the 
nocturnal  silence  that  I  do  not  declare  my  pre 
ference,  for  the  Argus  eyes  of  night  above  the 
Cyclops  eye  of  day."  The  poet  paused,  evidently 
pleased  with  his  conceit.  "  Look  there ! "  he  said, 
sharply ;  and  as  he  pointed  they  all  turned  to 
look  up  the  avenue.  High  above  the  horizon, 
higher  than  when  Fred  looked  up  at  it  that  after 
noon  as  he  went  to  see  Winifred  Marshall,  there 
shone  a  brilliant  star.  As  the  poet  spoke,  the 
star  blazed  up  for  a  second,  and  then  slid  sud 
denly  downward  across  the  heavens  and  out  of 
sight. 

They  went  in  silently  and  closed  the  door. 

They  found  that  Uncle    Larry  and   Mr.   Hob- 

son-Cholmondeley,  with  two  or  three  others,  were 

engaged  in  a  thorough  search  of  the  building.  It 

9 


130 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


was  a  total  puzzle  how  Fred  had  got  out  of  the 
three  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  but  as  he  was  not 
in  any  one  of  these  three  rooms,  it  was  advisable 
to  ascertain  whether  or  not  he  had  left  the  house. 
The  remaining  members  of  The  Full  Score  were 
in  the  library,  and  as  White,  Sutton  and  Vernon 
joined  them,  they  were  debating  the  circum 
stances  of  Fred's  strange  disappearance.  The 
ghastly  faces  of  the  silent  row  of  death-masks 
looked  down  upon  them  as  though  listening 
intently. 

"  Did  you  notice  how  uncomfortable  Fred  was 
when  he  saw  we  were  only  thirteen,"  asked  Mr. 
J.  Warren  Payn. 

"  Who  would  have  expected  him  to  be  super 
stitious  ?  "  Vernon  inquired. 

"  But  he  was — very  superstitious,"  responded 
Charley  Sutton;  "  he  hated  Friday.  He  told  me 
once  that  it  was  his  unlucky  day,  and  that  when 
ever  anything  wrong  happened  to  him,  it  was 
sure  to  be  on  a  Friday." 

"Well,  to-day  is  Friday,  isn't  it?"  Mr.  J. 
Warren  Payn  suggested. 

"  So  it  is  !  "  cried  Sutton. 

"  Strange,  indeed !  "  murmured  Vernon. 

"It  was  odd,  wasn't  it,"  continued  Sutton, 
"  what  he  said  about  that  fellow  out  in  the  East 
who  hated  him  so ;  he  said  that  if  he  were  to  die 
to-night  mysteriously,  his  death  would  be  the 
work  of  that  man." 


A  STRANGE  COINCIDENCE.  1^1 

"  Do  you  remember  the  man's  name  ?  "  asked 
Vernon. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  replied  Sutton;  "  I've  heard 
Fred  speak  of  him  before.  Harry  Brackett  and 
I  got  part  of  the  story  out  of  him  one  day  last 
summer.  His  name  was " 

A  sharp  ring  of  the  front  door  bell,  always 
audible  in  the  library,  put  a  stop  to  the  discus 
sion.  Laurence  Laughton  and  those  who  had 
been  aiding  him  in  a  fruitless  search  of  the  house 
were  coming  down  the  stairs  as  the  bell  rang. 
Laughton  went  to  the  door  himself.  There  was 
a  moment  of  strained  attention.  Then  the  cheery 
voice  of  Harry  Brackett  was  heard : 

"  Hello,  Uncle  Larry,  how  are  you  ?  I  was 
afraid  the  boys  would  all  be  gone  before  I  could 
turn  up.  I've  had  a  terrible  job  to  get  interviews 
out  of  all  those  polyglot  tramps  who  have  come 
over  here  to  sing  at  the  Academy.  I  say,  it's 
cold  to-night,  isn't  it  ?  There  is  an  eager  and 
a  nipping  wind,  and  I'll  take  a  little  nip  myself." 

"  The  feast  is  over,  and  the  faithful  Bridget  has 
gone  to-bed,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  trying  to  be 
cheerful,  despite  an  obstinate  sinking  of  the 
heart,  "  but  I  think  we  can  give  you  a  bite  and 
a  sup." 

Harry  Brackett  took  a  seat  before  the  fire  in 
the  dining-room,  and  began  an  attack  on  the 
remains  of  the  dinner.  "  I'm  as  hungry  as  a 
hunter,"  he  said,  not  noting  the  constrained  atti- 


132 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


tude  of  his  friends,  "  and  as  cold  as  a  scientific 
sermon.  And  I  have  been  working  like  a  horse 
all  the  afternoon.  The  City  of  Constantinople, 
with  the  whole  operatic  company  on  board,  was 
in  dock  at  noon,  and  yet  I  have  only  just  fin 
ished  my  story  and  sent  it  down.  I  had  the 
devil's  own  luck.  First  off,  the  manager  took 
me  for  a  new  deputy-sheriff,  and  it  was  three 
hours  before  I  could  get  at  him,  and  I  got  only 
a  stickful  when  I  did  get  it — no  news,  either ; 
of  course,  he  promises  lots  of  novelties,  but  he 
let  it  leak  out  that  he  meant  to  rely  on  the 
regular  fly-blown  operas  we  are  all  dead  tired 
of.  Next  I  went  for  the  new  tenor,  and  I've 
given  him  a  notice  from  Noticeville,  just  out  of 
charity,  because  he's  the  ugliest  man  in  the 
English  language.  His  mouth  and  his  ears  are 
three  sizes  larger  than  current  styles.  But  here 
I  am,  talking  a  straight  streak." 

"  Go  on,"  urged  Charley  Sutton;  "  don't  mind 
my  feelings  ;  keep  right  on." 

"  I  do  talk,  and  that's  a  fact,"  admitted  Harry 
Brackett,  helping  himself  to  a  particularly 
appetizing  pear.  "  I  believe  I  could  converse 
the  kick  out  of  a  mule.  A  man  has  to  be  handy 
with  his  tongue  when  he  gets  into  the  Apollo 
House.  There's  a  queer  den  for  you,  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men,  women  and  children, 
mostly  show-folks.  There's  a  German  tragedian 
and  a  French  opera-bouffe  troupe,  and  a  Russian 


A  STKANGE  COINCIDENCE. 


133 


violinist,  and  an  Italian  fakir,  and — but,  I  say, 
I'm  doing  all  the  talking." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Eliphalet  Duncan. 

"  And  you  fellows  stand  round  and  say  noth 
ing,"  continued  Harry  Brackett,  "just  as  though 
something  had  happened." 

"  Something  has  happened,"  White  answered. 

"  I  thought  so,"  Brackett  declared  ;  "  you  all 
look  as  serious  as  a  conference." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  "  that 
it's  exactly  serious.  But  Fred  Olyphant  is  missing. 
He  was  here  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  now  he  is 
gone,  and  we  are  all  greatly  puzzled  about  it." 

"  You  don't  think  anything  has  happened  to 
him,  do  you  ?  "  asked  Brackett,  with  interest. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Eliphalet  Duncan,  "  we 
have  no  reason  to  think  that.  But  we  do  not 
know  where  he  is." 

"  And  we  don't  know  how  he  got  out  of  the 
library,"  added  Sutton. 

"  We  have  called  him,  and  he  has  not 
answered,"  Vernon  said ;  "  we  have  sought,  and 
we  have  not  found." 

"  That  is  quite  queer,  isn't  it  ?"  Harry  Brackett 
replied;  "  and  do  you  think — "  Then  he  stopped 
abruptly,  as  a  new  idea  seemed  to  strike  him. 
"  Oh,  I  say,  did  Fred  ever  tell  any  of  you  fellows 
about  a  bad  man  with  a  black  heart  he  met  out 
East  somewhere,  a  sort  of  a  Corsican  Greek 
with  a  villainous  name  ?  " 


134 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"  Do  you  mean  Constantine  Vollonides  ?" 
asked  Laughton. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  man.  Well,  he's  here ! " 
replied  Harry  Bracket*. 

"  Here  ?  "  cried  Charley  Sutton. 

"  Yes,  here,  in  New  York.  I  suppose  he 
arrived  on  the  City  of  Constantinople.  At  all 
events,  he's  at  the  Apollo  House.  I  saw  the 
name  on  the  register  not  an  hour  ago." 

A  sudden  silence  fell  upon  the  little  group 
gathered  about  the  table  in  the  dining-room. 
Laughton  looked  up  and  caught  White's  eyes 
fixed  on  him  with  an  inquiring  look. 

Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  was  the  first  to 
speak.  "  Tiens,  tiens  !  "  he  said ;  "  it  is  certainly 
a  very  strange  coincidence." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  TOUCH  OF  A  VANISHED  HAND. 

A  FTER  The  Full  Score  had  departed  at  last, 
1\.  Laurence  Laughton  passed  a  restless  night ; 
his  mind  was  ill  at  ease  and  he  was  in  love.  It 
was  not  until  just  before  dawn  that  he  fell  into  a 
heavy  and  unrefreshing  slumber;  and  it  was 
almost  noon  when  he  was  able  to  rouse  himself 
and  to  rise.  The  faithful  Bridget  brought  him 
his  coffee  and  a  note  from  Robert  White.  His 
tangled  little  terrier,  Bundle  o'  Rags,  sat  on  the 
chair  opposite,  watching  him  with  the  sharp  eyes 
of  canine  affection,  while  he  sipped  his  coffee 
and  read  the  note.  White  wrote  that  on  leaving 
Uncle  Larry's  house  the  night  before,  he  had 
gone  straight  to  Olyphant's  studio,  where  he 
had  roused  the  negro  attendant,  only  to  learn 
that  the  artist  had  not  been  home  since  the  after 
noon  ;  he  had  called  there  again  in  the  morning 
as  he  went  down  town,  and  he  had  received  the 
same  answer — Olyphant  had  not  returned  to  his 
studio  since  he  left  it  to  go  to  Mrs.  Button's  tea. 
White  suggested  that  if  Uncle  Larry  would  join 
him,  it  might  be  well  to  go  to  the  artist's 

135 


136 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


quarters  that  afternoon,  and  to  interrogate  the 
sable  servitor  more  elaborately,  and  to  see  if  they 
might  not  discover  some  sort  of'  a  clue  to  the 
mysterious  disappearance  of  the  night  before. 

Laughton  wondered  why  it  was  that  the  read 
ing  of  this  note  deepened  the  gloom  which  en 
compassed  him  about.  He  was  depressed 
beyond  expression.  It  was  only  with  an  effort 
that  he  was  able  to  rouse  himself  to  the  perform 
ance  of  the  routine  work  which  demanded  imme 
diate  attention.  His  mind  kept  flying  away  from 
the  matter  in  hand ;  again  and  again  he  caught 
himself  holding  his  pen  in  the  air  and  gazing 
vacantly  into  space.  Bundle  o'  Rags  seemed  to 
divine  his  need  of  sympathy.  He  followed  all 
his  master's  movements  with  an  inquiring  eye 
and  a  tender  solicitude  to  anticipate  his  slightest 
wish.  Once  as  Larry  had  lost  himself  in  an 
indeterminate  day  dream,  he  was  brought  back 
to  consciousness  by  the  insertion  of  the  mop- 
like  head  of  Bundle  o'  Rags  into  the  left  hand, 
which  he  had  allowed  to  hang  pendent  by  the 
side  of  the  chair.  The  little  dog  thrust  his  head 
into  his  master's  hand  as  though  to  recall  his 
presence,  and  to  remind  him  of  the  warm  sympa 
thy  which  a  good  dog  always  feels  for  his  master. 
Larry  patted  the  head  of  his  devoted  pet.  "  Good 
dog,"  he  said,  gently, "  good  dog ;  "  and  Bundle  o' 
Rags  wagged  his  tail  with  an  abundant  joy. 

Despite  the  companionship  of  the  dog  and  the 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A    VANISHED  HAND. 


137 


necessity  of  imperative  work,  the  day  wore  away 
slowly  and  painfully ;  yet  it  drew  to  a  close  at 
last.  For  an  hour  or  two  before  Robert  White 
called  for  Laurence  Laughton  to  go  with  him  to 
Olyphant's  studio,  the  avenue  before  Uncle 
Larry's  door  was  filled  with  the  serried  ranks  of 
a  political  procession,  which  rent  the  air  with  the 
shrill  music  of  its  brazen  band,  and  with  the 
unanimity  of  its  oft-repeated  party  cries.  It  was 
the  Saturday  before  election,  and  the  business 
men  of  the  city  had  turned  out  in  force  to  show 
their  faith  in  the  candidate  of  the  reform  move 
ment  Merchants  and  lawyers,  tradesmen  and 
mechanics,  each  grouped  under  the  banner  of 
his  guild,  marched  in  their  thousands  to  prove 
the  sincerity  of  their  political  faith.  Ordinarily 
a  sight  like  this — a  spectacle  as  purely  American 
as  one  could  find  any  where  or  any  time — would 
have  aroused  Laughton's  keenest  interest.  But 
even  the  old  war-tunes,  as  band  after  band  blared 
them  forth,  failed  for  once  to  stir  his  blood.  He 
was  glad  when  a  sharp  ring  of  his  door-bell  told 
him  that  Robert  White  had  come. 

They  shook  hands  in  the  hall. 

"  This  is  a  good  show,"  said  the  journalist,  nod 
ding  his  head  toward  the  avenue,  up  which  a  brass 
band  of  unusual  discordance  was  now  proceeding. 
"  We  shall  put  our  man  in  with  a  rush  on  Tuesday." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  Uncle  Larry  responded, 
doubtfully,  with  his  thoughts  in  the  air. 


138 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"  I  do,"  replied  the  journalist.  "  Never  pro 
phesy  unless  you  know,  is  a  good  motto,  but  I 
can  almost  say  I  do  know  now.  This  procession 
will  send  us  up  the  river  with  a  rousing  majority, 
and  the  State  is  safe." 

With  no  little  difficulty  Laughton  and  White 
forced  their  way  gently  through  the  crowds 
which  lined  the  side-walks,  and  which  warmed 
up  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  paraders  and  sent 
back  answering  cheers.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
two  men  reached  Fourteenth  Street,  and  crossing 
the  procession  they  continued  down  Fifth 
Avenue,  almost  as  bare  and  deserted  below  as 
above  it  had  been  crowded  and  excited.  The 
day  was  dull  and  drear ;  and  there  was  a  chill 
wind  which  smote  them  with  double  force,  now 
that  they  were  no  longer  protected  by  the  throng 
of  the  procession  and  of  its  spectators. 

Laughton  and  White  walked  along  silently. 
The  journalist  had  a  fancy  for  the  solution  of 
puzzles,  and  more  than  once,  as  a  volunteer,  he 
had  cleared  up  mysteries  which  baffled  the  less 
intelligent  detectives  of  the  regular  police.  In 
the  present  instance  he  felt  himself  at  sea,  with 
no  firm  ground  under  his  feet.  How  Olyphant 
could  have  got  out  of  Laughton's  library,  and 
why  he  should  go  and  make  no  sign — these  were 
the  problems  which  White  was  turning  over  and 
over.  The  journalist  did  not  know  how  much 
weight  to  attach  to  the  presence  in  New  York, 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A    VANISHED  HAND.      ^ 

of  the  one  deadly  enemy  Fred  had.  As  yet  he 
could  not  see  how  Constantine  Vollonides  could 
have  had  any  hand  in  the  artist's  disappearance. 

While  White  applied  himself  to  these  problems, 
with  a  resolute  desire  to  solve  them,  he  had  not 
the  strong  personal  interest  in  the  solution 
which  Laurence  Laughton  had :  and  he  was 
able  to  consider  them  in  a  more  favorable  frame 
of  mind.  Laughton  was  conscious  of  a  numb 
ing  of  his  faculties  as  he  strove  to  concentrate 
them  ;  he  was  weighed  down  by  an  inexplicable 
dread.  The  melancholy  of  autumn  had  seized 
him,  and  it  intensified  his  own  dreary  doubt. 
The  reddening  leaves  were  blown  from  the  scant 
trees,  and  fell  about  his  feet.  At  the  corner  of 
Eleventh  Street,  there  was  a  misanthropic  engine 
of  torture,  of  the  kind  known  as  piano-organs, 
from  which  a  sturdy  Italian  was  slowly  grinding 
forth  the  lugubrious  strains  of  a  ballad  of 
temporary  popularity,  beseeching  the  hearer  to 
wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by.  The  trembling  notes 
of  this  pitiful  song  emphasized  Laughton's  unac 
countable  misery.  Even  the  sudden,  sharp  clang 
of  a  fire-engine,  which  rushed  down  the  avenue, 
drawn  by  eager  horses,  urged  to  their  utmost 
speed,  even  this,  which  stirs  the  blood  of  the 
true  New  Yorker  upon  his  death-bed,  failed  for 
once  to  rouse  Laughton  from  his  lethargic  misery. 

At  Tenth  Street,  they  turned  and  walked 
toward  Sixth  Avenue.  When  they  had  arrived 


140 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


almost  opposite  the  old  Studio  Building,  which 
has  harbored  three  generations  of  the  painters 
and  sculptors  of  New  York,  and  just  before  they 
caught  sight  of  the  tall  red  bell-tower  of  the 
Jefferson-Market  Court-house,  the  most  pictur 
esque  public  building  of  the  city,  they  stayed 
their  feet  in  front  of  a  row  of  dingy  little  houses, 
two-stories  high,  and  built  of  dull  and  faded 
brick.  Under  the  high  stoop  of  one  of  these 
desolate  and  most  prosaic  habitations,  and  lurk 
ing  half  out  of  sight,  as  though  it  were  ashamed 
of  itself,  there  was  a  low  door.  Going  down  two 
or  three  steps,  Robert  White  rang  the  bell  by 
the  side  of  this  unobtrusive  entrance.  In  the 
distance  the  bell  was  heard  to  jangle  harshly. 
White  and  Laughton  stood  on  the  low  door-step 
for  a  minute  or  more,  before  there  were  any 
sounds  of  an  answer  to  their  appeal.  Then  a 
shuffling  along  the  passage-way  announced  the 
approach  of  the  venerable  Andrew  Jackson.  A 
bolt  was  drawn,  a  key  turned  in  a  lock,  and 
the  door  opened,  revealing  a  long  low  passage 
under  the  house  to  a  yard  in  the  rear.  Holding 
the  door  ajar  was  Andrew  Jackson,  a  tall  thin 
•»  negro,  with  a  full  head  of  curly  white  hair ;  he 
had  a  most  benevolent  expression,  and  he  spoke 
with  an  elaborate  precision. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Laughton?  Excuse  me,  sir, 
for  not  having  been  quicker  to  open  the  door,  but 
I  have  my  neuralgy  to-day,  and  I  am  threatened 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A    VANISHED  HAND. 


141 


with  pneumony,  and  I  cannot  get  about  as  spry 
as  I  would  like  to.  Walk  in,  sir.  And  this  is 
Mr.  White;  walk  in,  sir;  walk  right  in."  And 
Andrew  Jackson  held  the  door  open  before  them, 
waving  them  in  with  the  most  graceful  gestures. 

"  Is  Mr.  Olyphant  at  home  ?  "  asked  White. 

"  Not  yet,  sir,"  answered  the  old  negro  ;  "  not 
yet.  But  he  will  be  'long  bimeby,  he  will  be  'long; 
step  in  out  of  the  cold,  gentlemen."  And  mak 
ing  way  for  them,  with  a  polite  bow,  he  hastened 
to  close  the  door,  and  to  shut  out  the  chill  wind 
which  was  pouring  along  the  damp  passage. 
Andrew  Jackson  was  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  as 
handsome  as  only  an  old  negro  of  the  better  sort 
can  be.  He  was  very  exact  in  his  use  of  the  Eng 
lish  language,  and  the  few  elisions  he  still  permitted 
himself  seemed  as  though  they  were  survivals  of 
an  earlier  and  ungrammatical  stage  of  culture. 

"  Mr.  Olyphant  hasn't  been  home  since  yes 
terday  afternoon  ?"  queried  White. 

"  That  is  what  I  told  you  last  night,  sir,  when 
you  called  me  from  my  bed,"  replied  the 
darkey,  with  dignity,  and  without  any  tone  of 
reproach  in  his  voice.  "  And  that  is  what  I  told 
you  this  morning  again,  Mr.  White.  Mr.  Fred 
erick  went  out  yesterday  afternoon,  and  he  has 
not  yet  returned.  Will  you  walk  up  to  the 
studio,  gentlemen,  and  wait  for  him  ?  " 

White  and  Laughton  exchanged  affirmative 
glances. 


142 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"There  is  a  fire  in  the  studio,  gentlemen," 
urged  the  courtly  negro,  shivering  in  the  chill  air 
of  the  passage. 

"  Lead  on,  I'll  follow  thee,"  White  declared. 

Andrew  Jackson  conducted  them  through  the 
passage  into  the  small  yard  in  the  rear  of  the 
house.  Holding  his  body  erect,  he  shuffled 
across  this  yard,  which  was  only  a  few  paces 
square,  to  a  small  oddly-shaped  building  which 
filled  the  end  of  the  lot.  This  building  looked 
as  though  it  had  recently  been  repaired  and 
repainted  after  many  years  of  neglect  and  decay  ; 
and  such  was  the  fact.  A  few  months  before, 
Olyphant,  in  his  search  for  a  studio,  happened 
upon  this  tumble-down  old  house  on  the  rear  of 
a  lot.  The  situation  was  exactly  what  he  wished, 
the  rent  was  modest,  and  the  owner  offered  to 
pay  for  the  repairs.  The  walls  were  solid  enough, 
and  the  roof  could  be  made  tight.  There  was 
something  bizarre  about  the  building  which 
fascinated  Fred,  and  he  had  taken  possession  of 
it  with  great  pleasure.  The  house  was  tiny;  the 
basement  held  a  kitchen  ;  the  ground-floor  served 
as  a  sitting-room  and  a  dining-room  ;  on  the 
floor  above  were  two  little  bed  rooms,  one  for 
the  artist  and  one  for  Andrew  Jackson,  who  was 
his  man-of-all  work,  cook,  and  chambermaid, 
messenger  and  model  at  need.  The  attic  floor, 
under  a  quaint  gable  roof,  Olyphant  took  for 
his  studio ;  he  removed  all  the  partitions,  he  put 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A    VANISHED  HAND.      143 

in  enormous  skylights,  he  enlarged  the  fireplaces, 
he  had  had  the  walls  and  the  roof  made  water 
proof  and  wind-tight;  and  here  he  worked, 
shut  off  from  all  extraneous  distractions,  as 
though  he  were  at  the  top  of  a  high  tower,  with 
Andrew  Jackson  as  a  jealous  sentinel  on  guard 
at  the  foot  of  the  stair. 

The  walls  of  the  room  on  the  ground-floor, 
contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay,  and  to  serve  both 
as  a  dining-room  and  as  a  sitting-room,  were 
divided  into  irregular  rectangular  panels,  most  of 
which  contained  pictures,  studies,  and  sketches 
by  Olyphant's  fellow-painters.  Along  one  side 
of  the  room  was  a  series  of  battle-pieces,  reminis 
cences  of  Olyphant's  Russo-Turkish  experience  : 
they  were  cold  and  pitiless  in  their  exposure  of 
the  irredeemable  brutality  of  war.  It  was  into 
this  room  that  Andrew  Jackson  led  Laughton 
and  White. 

"  There's  a  fire  here  too,  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
as  he  held  open  the  door  for  them  to  enter,  bow 
ing  low,  "  and  I  can  make  a  little  punch  for 
you,  if  you  would  like  it,  to  keep  out  the 
cold?" 

Laughton  shook  his  head  and  White  answered, 
"  No,  thank  you,  Andy,  we  are  neither  cold  nor 
thirsty." 

"  Mr.  Olyphant  has  some  very  good  whiskey, 
sir,"  persisted  the  negro,  persuasively. 

"  Tell  me,  Andy,"  asked  White,  suddenly,  "  is 


144 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


this  the  first  time  Mr.  Olyphant  has  been  out  all 
night  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir — not  the  first  time  at  all.  He 
did  not  come  home  one  night  about  two  weeks 
ago,  sir." 

"  Two  weeks  ago  ? "  intervened  Laughton. 
"  About  two  weeks  ago  he  stayed  all  night  with 
me  ;  we  were  talking  till  very  late,  and  he  took  a 
bed  at  my  house  instead  of  going  home." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Andrew  Jackson  corroborated, 
"  that  is  what  he  said  when  he  returned.  He 
informed  me  that  he  had  spent  the  night  at  your 
residence,  sir." 

"  And  is  that  the  only  time  ? "  continued 
White. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  think  not,"  Andrew  Jackson 
answered,  trying  to  recollect.  "  In  the  summer, 
sir,  he  was  often  away  from  home  at  night — 
especially  over  Sunday." 

"  I  can  account  for  that  too,"  Laughton  de 
clared  ;  "  he  used  to  go  to  Coney  Island  for  the 
night.  After  I  got  back  from  Europe  we  ran 
down  together  two  or  three  times  to  stay  over 
Sunday." 

"  Did  he  notify  you  when  he  was  going  to  be 
away  ?  "  asked  White. 

"  Sometimes  he  did,  sir,  and  sometimes  he 
did  not.  He  did  pretty  much  as  he  happened 
to  feel  like,"  replied  Andrew  Jackson.  "  He 
was  not  very  regular  in  his  comings  and 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A    VANISHED  HAND. 


145 


goings,  sir,  and  there  is  many  a  good  dinner  I 
have  had  to  eat  here  all  alone  after  getting  it 
ready  for  him.  I  expect  him  in  soon  now,  sir, 
because  to-day  is  Saturday,  and  Saturday  is  his 
reception-day.  He  receives  in  his  studio  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  call.  There  have 
been  two  ladies  here  already  this  afternoon." 

"  Two  ladies  ?  "  asked  Laughton,  surprised ; 
"  what  ladies  ?  " 

"  I  really  do  not  know,  sir,"  answered  An 
drew  Jackson.  "  They  were  young  ladies,  sir. 
One  of  them  was  very  handsome,  sir,  with  dark 
hair  and  dark  eyes,  and  the  other  was  smaller 
and  younger,  and  she  had  reddish  hair,  sir,  and 
it  was  cut  short  like  a  boy's  almost — but  she  was 
quite  a  lady." 

"  That  sounds  like  a  description  of  Pussy 
Palmer,"  White  suggested,  with  a  smile  ;  "  but 
who  can  the  other  girl  be  ?  " 

With  the  jealousy  of  a  lover  Laughton  had 
made  an  instant  guess  at  the  other.  But  he 
said  nothing. 

"  The  handsome  young  lady  called  the  little 
one  '  Pussy,'  sir,"  confirmed  Andrew  Jackson. 

"  Then  it  was  the  Palmer  girl !  "  White  de 
clared,  laughing;  "it's  just  like  her." 

"  The  two  ladies  came  together,  sir,  about  an 
hour  ago.  They  went  up  to  the  studio,  and 
looked  about  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  they 
came  down  here,  sir,  and  when  I  asked  what 


146 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


name  I  should  say  called,  the  taller  lady  took  a 
rose  from  a  big  bunch  she  had  pinned  at  her 
waist,  and  she  said  to  give  that  to  Mr.  Olyphant 
when  he  came  in  and  he  would  know  who  it 
was.  There  is  the  rose,  sir." 

A  quaint  Venetian  ewer  stood  on  a  little  table 
at  the  window,  and  in  this  there  rested  a  superb 
yellow  rose.  To  Uncle  Larry  it  seemed 
strangely  like  the  yellow  roses  which  he  had 
seen  fastened  to  the  girdle  of  Winifred  Marshall 
the  afternoon  before.  But  perhaps  this  was 
fancy,  he  said  to  himself;  there  is  more  than  one 
tall,  handsome,  dark-haired  girl  in  New  York, 
and  there  are  yellow  roses  in  plenty. 

"  Shall  we  go  up  stairs  ?  "  asked  White,  and 
Laughton  waked  from  his  day-dream  and 
assented. 

Andrew  Jackson,  despite  the  rheumatism  which 
twisted  his  long  legs,  preceded  them  briskly, 
and  yet  with  dignity,  up  the  little  stairs  leading 
to  the  attic.  The  studio  occupied  the  whole  top 
of  the  house,  and  it  was  none  too  large.  The 
stairs  came  up  in  one  corner  unexpectedly  and 
with  a  certain  picturesque  abruptness.  In  the 
large  fire-place  which  dominated  the  room, there 
sparkled  and  crackled  a  comfortable  fire  which  had 
taken  the  chill  from  the  air.  The  dull  and  fading 
light  of  a  drear}' autumn  afternoon  came  in,  gray 
and  cold,  through  the  broad  sky-lights.  Antique 
cabinets  and  curious  old  presses  were  filled  with 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A    VANISHED  HAND. 


147 


a  heterogeny  of  costumes ;  and  other  costumes 
in  tumultuous  abundance  were  visible  through 
the  half-opened  door  of  a  closet.  There  were 
three  or  four  tables  of  varying  design  and  age ; 
and  no  two  of  the  chairs  were  alike ;  they 
were  all  studio  properties  bought  one  at  a  time, 
to  serve  the  special  purpose  of  a  picture.  Against 
the  walls  were  dozens  of  huge  portfolios  filled 
with  photographs  and  engravings  and  studies. 
Two  easels  held  pictures  partly  finished.  On 
one  was  the  '  Sharpness  of  Death/  the  work 
to  which  Olyphant  had  been  giving  his  best 
thought  for  the  past  few  months.  On  the  other 
was  a  canvas  concealed  by  a  cloth  thrown  care 
fully  over  it.  A  chair  near  this  was  littered  with 
brushes,  tubes  of  paint,  bits  of  charcoal  and  what 
not.  Around  the  studio,  here  and  there,  against 
the  wall,  or  leaning  upon  a  table,  were  canvases 
of  all  sizes, — bits  of  color,  "  effects  "  seized  and 
set  down  at  the  moment,  anatomical  studies, 
careful  copies  from  life,  side  by  side  with  faces 
which  were  expression  only,  as  they  were  almost 
without  features.  Nowhere  was  there  anything 
flashy  or  facile  or  meretricious;  there  was  no 
chic  to  be  seen ;  there  was  no  mere  reveling  in 
manual  cleverness ;  there  were  rather  the  evi 
dences  of  the  hard  work  of  an  honest  workman, 
toiling  as  best  he  knew  how  to  overcome  and  to 
conquer  a  rebel  material,  and  to  force  the  erring 
hand  to  do  the  bidding  of  the  brain. 


148 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


Upon  its  side  on  a  settee  reclined  a  lay-figure 
swathed  in  Oriental  draperies  richly  embroidered. 
A  dagger  was  thrust  into  the  figure  behind  the 
shoulder,  as  though  its  point  were  meant  for  the 
heart. 

Laughton  had  given  himself  up  to  the  pathos 
of  the  deserted  studio,  when  White  touched  him 
and  pointed  to  the  murdered  lay-figure. 

"  That  is  a  startling  thing  for  us  to  see  just 
now,  isn't  it?"  asked  the  journalist. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Andrew  Jackson,  before 
Laughton  had  roused  himself  to  respond  ;  "  it 
frightened  the  young  ladies  a  good  deal.  The 
little  one  with  the  hair  cut  short  shrieked  right 
out,  but  the  other  one  went  up  to  it  at  once." 

"  Did  the  two  young  ladies  come  up  here  ?  " 
Laughton  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  answered  Andrew  Jackson. 
"  When  Mr.  Olyphant  is  not  in,  I  always  show 
the  studio  to  ladies.  They  were  very  much 
interested,  sir,  very  much." 

"  You  say  one  of  the  young  ladies  was  not 
frightened  at  this  assassination  here  ? "  White 
asked ;  "  I  wonder  who  it  was." 

Laughton  gave  White  a  sharp  glance  as  though 
to  share  in  any  guess  he  might  make. 

Andrew  Jackson  straightened  a  fold  in  the 
drapery  of  the  lay-figure,  and  continued,  "  No, 
sir,  she  was  not  afraid  at  all.  She  came  over 
here  to  it,  and  she  put  her  hand  on  the  dagger, — 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A    VANISHED  HAND. 


149 


so — and  just  then  I  heard  something  drop.  I 
thought  it  sounded  like  a  ring,  but  the  young 
lady  said  it  was  a  cat's  eye."  Here  Andrew 
Jackson  smiled  a  smile  of  conscious  knowledge. 
"  Of  course,  sir,  I  knew  better  than  that.  I  knew 
that  if  a  cat  let  her  eye  fall  on  the  floor  it  would 
not  make  a  noise  like  a  gold  ring.  I  thought 
the  young  lady  wanted  to  have  some  fun,  per 
haps  ;  and  so,  sir,  I  said  nothing ;  nothing  at 
all ! " 

"  Did  she  show  you  the  cat's-eye  ?  "  Laughton 
asked. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  answered  Andrew  Jackson, 
smiling  again  as  sagely  as  before ;  "  she  did  not 
show  it  to  me.  She  told  the  other  young  lady 
that  she  was  very  glad  to  have  found  it." 

Laughton  was  standing  near  the  easel  holding 
the  covered  canvas.  He  stepped  forward  im 
patiently  and,  with  an  effort,  he  asked,  "  What 
was  this  young  lady  like  ?  " 

White  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

Andrew  Jackson  answered,  "  I  told  you,  sir, 
already,  she  was  a  very  handsome  young  lady, 
tall  and — "  Here  Andrew  Jackson  happened  to 
look  up,  and  his  eyes  fell  on  the  picture 
on  the  easel,  from  which  Laughton's 
impatient  movement  had  shaken  the  cover. 
"  Why,  there,  sir,"  cried  the  negro,  "  there's  a 
portrait  of  the  young  lady,  sir,  quite  as  good  as 
a  photograph." 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

On  the  canvas  from  which  the  curtain  had 
fallen  thus  opportunely,  there  were  only  a  few 
bold,  rapid  strokes  in  charcoal,  outlining  a  female 
head. 

"  Why,  it  is  Miss  Marshall !  "  White  cried. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  Laughton,  facing 
him,  sternly. 

"  Yes,"  answered  White,  gazing  at  the  portrait 
again,  "  or,  at  any  rate,  it  is  strangely  like  her. 
That  head  alone,"  he  continued,  enthusiastically, 
"would  be  enough  to  prove  the  genius  of 
Frederick  Olyphant  See  how  he  has  seen  into 
the  girl's  soul,  and  how  he  has  set  down  the 
spiritual  essence  of  her  character  in  a  few  touches 
of  black-and-white.  It  is  marvelous." 

Laurence  Laughton  looked  at  the  picture 
intently.  It  was  Winifred  Marshall  beyond  a 
doubt — Winifred  Marshall  without  the  veil  of 
haunting  melancholy  which  was  wont  to  shroud 
her  face ;  Winifred  Marshall  with  the  light  of 
love  in  her  eyes.  Sick  at  heart,  Laughton  lifted 
the  cloth  and  covered  the  canvas  again  with 
care.  Then  he  said,  "Let's  be  going ;  we  have 
discovered  nothing  as  yet." 

As  they  passed  down  stairs  and  out  into  the 
yard,  White  sighed  and  said  :  "  Well,  I  confess 
I  am  disappointed.  I  had  hoped  that  we  might 
find  some  clue  to  Fred's  fate." 

"  What,  sir,"  asked  Andrew  Jackson,  seizing 
White's  arm  in  his  right  hand  and  talking  with 


THE   TOUCH  OF  A   VANISHED  HAND.      l^i 

great  excitement,  "  you  didn't  think  nothing 
has  happen  to  Mas'r  Frederick,  do  you,  sah  ?  " 

"  We  do  not  know,"  White  answered,  gently. 
"  We  are  trying  to  fyid  out  what  has  become  of 
him." 

"  Then  he  ain't  a-comin'  back  bimeby  ?  An' 
that's  why  you've  been  askin'  questions  ?  Poor 
Mas'r  Frederick  !  Poor  Mas'r  Frederick  "  And 
the  faithful  servant  had  to  make  an  effort  to  keep 
back  the  sobs  that  rose  to  his  throat. 

"  Do  you  know  anybody  who  has  a  grudge 
.against  Mr.  Olyphant?"  White  inquired,  when 
they  stood  once  more  in  the  street. 

"  No,  sah ;  Mas'r  Frederick  never  hurted  no 
one,  sah ;  I  know  that,  sah,"  answered  the  poor 
negro,  with  all  his  precision  of  speech  and  all 
his  pride  of  manner  gone  from  him.  "  And 
there  ain't  no  suspicious  characters  been  about 
here,  neither.  I  don't  believe  Mas'r  Frederick 
ever  laid  eyes  on  a  Voodoo  woman." 

White  could  not  keep  back  a  smile,  but  to 
hide  it  from  the  devoted  negro,  he  said, "  So  there 
have  been  no  suspicious  characters  about  here  ?" 

"No,  sah,  none.  That  is,  sah,  not  to-day, 
sah." 

"  Was  there  a  suspicious  character  here  yester 
day  ?  "  asked  White,  hastily. 

"  Well,  sah,  I  don't  know,  sah.  But  yesterday 
afternoon,  just  after  Mas'r  Frederick  go,  sah,  I 
was  out  here,  polishing  the  door-knob,  sah,  and 


152 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


a  strange  man  came  by,  and  he  stopped,  and  he 
asked  me  if  Mas'r  Frederick  Olyphant  lived  here, 
and  I  said  he  did,  but  he  had  just  gone.  Then 
the  strange  man  went  right  down  the  street  after 
Mas'r  Fred." 

"  This  was  yesterday  afternoon  ?  "  White  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  yesterday  afternoon  about  three  or 
four  o'clock,"  answered  Andrew  Jackson. 

White  hesitated  a  moment,  then  he  inquired : 

"  Why  do  you  call  this  strange  man  a  suspi 
cious  character  ?  " 

In  his  turn  Andrew  Jackson  hesitated.  At 
last  he  answered :  "  He  gave  me  a  gold  dollar  not 
to  tell  any  one  he  had  called.  And  you  are  the 
first  one  I  have  told  at  all." 

"  He  gave  you  a  gold  dollar  ? "  Laughton 
asked,  in  sharp  surprise. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  What  was  he  like  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  peculiar-looking  man,  sir,  although 
he  was  dressed  like  a  perfect  gentleman.  I 
noticed  his  boots,  and  he  had  very  small  feet.  I 
misdoubt  he  was  a  stranger — a  foreigner." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  he  had  a  queer  accent.  He  spoke 
English  nearly  as  well  as  we  do,  sir,"  and 
Andrew  Jackson  made  a  polite  bow ;  "  but  he  had 
a  queer  accent — very  queer." 

"  Was  he  a  Frenchman  ?  " 

"  Qh,  no,  sir.     No,  he  was  not  a  Frenchman. 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A    VANISHED  HAND. 


153 


I  speak  French  myself — that  is,  I  speak  it  a  little 
— and  I  know  he  was  not  a  Frenchman.  And 
he  did  not  seem  like  a  German.  Perhaps,  sir. 
he  was  an  I-talian." 

"  An  Italian  ?  "  repeated  Laughton,  mechani 
cally,  as  he  and  White  exchanged  a  meaning 
glance.  "  Had  he  any  other  peculiarity  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  no — except  his  white  face, — that 
was  very  white,  sir,  very  white  indeed." 

"  Was  there  a  scar  in  the  centre  of  the  fore 
head  ?  "  asked  Laughton,  quickly. 

"  How  did  you  know  that,  sir,"  said  Andrew 
Jackson,  taken  aback. 

"  Did  he  have  a  scar  there  ?     Yes  or  no  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir;  he  did — at  least  I  thought  I  saw 
a  scar  there,  but  he  had  a  hat  on  and —  " 

"  Had  he  a  dark  mustache  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir — a  black  mustache  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  man  !  "  said  Laughton  to  White. 

"  Constantine  Vollonides  ?  "  White  asked. 

"  Constantine  Vollonides,"  answered  Laughton. 

They  left  Andrew  Jackson  standing  with  dig 
nity  before  the  underground  passage  to  Olyphant's 
studio,  and  they  walked  rapidly  to  the  Apollo 
House,  where  Harry  Brackett  had  seen  the 
name  of  Constantine  Vollonides  on  the  register. 
By  this  time  darkness  had  fallen  on  the  city,  but 
at  Fifth  Avenue  and  Fourteenth  Street,  the 
political  procession  was  still  passing,  and  the  air 
was  filled  with  the  martial  strains  of  the  John 


154 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


Brown  march.  Hurriedly  crossing  to  Union 
Square,  Laughton  and  White  made  their  way 
at  once  to  the  Apollo  House,  which  was  only 
a  stone's  throw  beyond. 

They  went  to  the  office  and  asked  the  clerk, 
"  Is  Mr.  Constantine  Vollonides  staying  here  ?  " 

"  He  has  gone,"  the  clerk  answered,  with  the 
curtness  which  is  the  chief  characteristic  of  the 
hotel  clerk. 

"  When  ?  " 

"  Last  night." 

"  At  what  time  ?  " 

The  clerk  called  across  the  hall  to  a  porter, 
"  Pete,  what  time  last  night  did  the  gent  in  47 
go?" 

Pete  replied  promptly,  "  He  come  in  a  little 
after  eleven,  and  I  got  him  a  coupe,  and  he  went 
up  to  the  Grand  Central  to  catch  the  midnight 
train  for  Chicago." 

As  Laughton  and  White  came  out  of  the  hotel, 
the  latter  asked,  "  What  time  was  it  when  you 
missed  Fred  last  night  ?  " 

"  A  little  after  ten,  I  think." 

White  whistled  meditatively.  "  And  Constan 
tine  Vollonides  did  not  return  to  the  hotel  till 
after  eleven,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    RETURN    OF    DEAR   JONES. 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Frederick 
Olyphant  had  last  been  seen  on  Friday 
evening;  for  nearly  forty-eight  hours  he  had  not 
been  heard  from.  A  certain  aroma  of  eccen 
tricity  clung  about  the  artist,  and  some  of  his 
friends  thought  it  perfectly  possible  that  he  had  all 
at  once  taken  the  freak  of  going  off  by  himself, 
to  get  away  from  the  turmoil  and  the  worry  of 
the  city.  Possible,  this  might  be,  but  probable  it 
was  not.  As  Bob  White  summed  up  the  situa 
tion,  there  were  three  problems  to  solve  :  First, 
how  had  Fred  got  out  of  Uncle  Larry's  library  ? 
second,  why  had  he  gone  without  warning  ?  and, 
third,  where  was  he  now?  The  presence  of 
Constantine  Vollonides  in  New  York,  his  inquiry 
at  the  artist's  studio,  and  his  sudden  departure 
from  town,  shortly  after  Olyphant's  disappearance, 
these  were  all  circumstances  which  complicated 
the  situation  not  a  little.  They  might  be  signi 
ficant,  and  again  they  might  be  only  fortuitous 
coincidences. 

When  Monday  morning  came  and  brought  no 


56 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


news,  Robert  White  went  to  Laurence  Laughton, 
and  suggested  that  the  time  had  come  to  call  on 
the  police,  and  to  get  what  aid  they  might  give. 
Laurence  was  anxious  not  to  arouse  public 
speculation,  knowing  how  unpleasant  all  notoriety 
would  be  to  the  artist  were  he  to  return  as  sud 
denly  as  he  had  gone.  But  White  convinced 
him  that  to  inform  the  proper  authorities  was  a 
duty  they  had  no  right  to  postpone  any  longer, 
and  he  yielded  at  last,  although  still  unwilling. 
They  went  together  to  police  headquarters,  which 
they  found  in  a  high  state  of  activity,  as  the 
morrow  would  be  election  day,  when  a  double 
responsibility  is  imposed  on  the  police  of  New 
York.  In  the  course  of  his  work  on  the  Gotham 
Gazette,  Robert  White  had  had  occasion  to  meet 
Inspector  Barnes,  the  head  of  the  detective  force, 
and  he  knew  him  to  be  courteous,  prompt,  active, 
and  full  of  resource.  To  Inspector  Barnes,  there 
fore,  he  sent  up  his  card,  and  despite  the  pressure 
of  work,  he  and  Laughton  were  invited  at  once 
into  the  private  office  of  the  inspector,  who 
received  them  cordially. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  to-day,  gentlemen  ?  " 
asked  the  inspector,  lighting  a  fresh  cigar. 

Robert  White  made  a  plain  statement  of  the 
case.  Inspector  Barnes  listened  attentively, 
smoking  in  silence  and  never  interrupting  except 
to  put  a  pertinent  question  at  the  apt  moment. 
When  the  story  was  told  he  meditated  a  minute 


THE  RETURN  OF  DEAR  JONES.  itj 

or  two.  Then  he  took  up  a  pen  and  made  a  few 
notes.  He  asked  for  a  full  description  of  the 
missing  man,  and  said  that  he  would  have  the 
general  alarm  sent  out  at  once,  and  that  the 
whole  force  of  the  police  would  thereafter  be  on 
the  lookout.  He  added  that  he  doubted  whether 
there  was  any  need  to  be  excited,  as  in  all  pro 
bability  Mr.  Olyphant  would  soon  reappear  all 
right,  and  with  a  valid  reason  for  his  absence. 
In  view  of  this  fortunate-  contingency,  Laugh- 
ton  begged  that  as  little  publicity  as  possible  be 
given  to  the  disappearance.  As  they  were 
making  ready  to  leave  the  inspector  to  his  work, 
he  asked  again  about  Laurence's  library,  and 
about  the  means  of  egress  from  it.  Laughton 
made  a  sketch-plan  of  his  ground-floor,  and  the 
inspector  jotted  a  few  more  notes  on  the  back 
of  this  and  put  it  away  in  a  drawer.  Then  he 
inquired  whether  Mr.  Olyphant  was  likely  to 
have  had  any  money  or  valuables  on  his  person, 
and  also  whether  he  was  known  fo  have  any 
enemies.  Thus  interrogated,  Laughton  sat 
down  again  and  told  the  inspector  about  Con- 
stantine  Vollonides,  setting  forth  the  grounds  of 
the  quarrel  at  Pera,  the  threat  of  the  Greek  that 
the  next  meeting  should  have  a  different  ending, 
and  his  arrival  in  New  York  a  few  hours  before 
Olyphant's  strange  disappearance.  The  inspector 
listened  attentively,  and  asked  if  the  Greek  was 
still  in  New  York.  "  It  will  do  no  harm  to 


I58 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


have  him  watched,"  he  remarked,  when  he  was 
informed  that  Constantine  Vollonides  had  left 
the  city  for  Chicago  on  the  midnight  train  of 
Friday.  "  First  of  all,  we  must  find  out  whether 
he  really  took  that  train  or  not  You  may  rely 
on  me  to  attend  to  that." 

Again  White  and  Laughton  arose  to  go, 
thanking  the  inspector  for  his  courtesy. 

"  One  word  more,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  as  they 
reached  the  door,  "  Is  there  a  woman  in  the 
case." 

Instantly  White  and  Laughton  replied  together, 
"  No." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  returned  Inspector  Barnes.  "  That 
complicates  matters  a  little."  Then  he  held  the 
door  open  for  them  and  they  passed  out.  When 
they  had  gone,  he  touched  a  bell,  and  he  gave 
instructions  to  the  officer  who  responded  to  the 
summons  to  go  to  the  Apollo  House  and  to  find 
the  driver  of  the  carriage  which  took  Constan 
tine  Vollonides  to  the  Grand  Central  Depot  on 
Friday  night,  and  to  ascertain  whether  or  not 
the  Greek  had  taken  the  midnight  train  ;  and  if 
he  had,  to  discover  when  and  where  he  had  left 
the  train ;  whether  at  Chicago  or  at  some  point 
short  of  Chicago. 

A  day  passed,  and  two  days  and  three  days, 
and  the  friendly  prediction  of  Inspector  Barnes 
was  not  realized  :  Frederick  Olyphant  did  not 
reappear.  A  President  of  the  United  States  was 


THE  RETURN  OF  DEAR  JONES. 

elected  on  Tuesday ;  and  for  several  days  there 
after  there  was  some  slight  doubt  as  to  the 
result  of  the  vote.  For  a  little  while  the  most 
intense  excitement  prevailed  throughout  the 
nation,  and  the  newspapers  had  no  space  to  spare 
for  an  incident  so  unimportant  comparatively  as 
the  disappearance  of  one  man.  Toward  the  end 
of  the  week  public  opinion  began  to  settle,  and 
in  the  minds  of  even  the  most  violent  political 
partisans,  doubt  gave  way  slowly  to  the  assur 
ance  of  defeat  or  of  victory.  But  the  sickening 
uncertainty  of  Olyphant's  fate  was  not  resolved 
away  by  any  definite  news.  Some  of  his  friends 
felt  that  they  would  rather  be  told  positively  of 
his  death  than  remain  in  the  intolerable  doubt 
into  which  the  mystery  of  his  vanishing  had 
plunged  them. 

Laurence  Laughton  opened  his  newspaper 
every  morning  in  fear  and  trembling.  He 
dreaded  to  see  an  imaginative  account  of  Fred 
erick's  disappearance  spread  through  two  or 
three  columns,  with  an  abundance  of  needless 
detail,  vulgar  and  personal.  Fortunately,  the 
newspapers  found  metal  more  attractive  to  their 
readers  in  the  description  of  the  final  throes  of 
the  political  trouble.  And  so  the  dull  days 
dragged  on,  and  he  had  only  the  "  no  news " 
which  is  never  "  good  news."  At  last  a  full 
week  had  passed;  it  was  again  Friday,  just  seven 
days  since  The  Full  Score  had  met  at  his  house 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

to  dine ;  and  he  had  promised  to  go  to  dinner  at 
Mrs.  Martin's. 

The  Duchess  of  Washington  Square  had 
always  been  very  fond  of  Miss  Phyllis  Van 
Renssellaer;  she  it  was  who  had  introduced 
Dear  Jones  to  her,  and  she  had  been  a  party  to 
his  ardent  courtship.  She  rejoiced  at  their  mar 
riage  and  sent  them  a  pair  of  beautiful  silver  lamps 
as  a  wedding  present.  And  now  when  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Delancey  Jones  returned  on  the 
City  of  Constantinople  from  their  summer 
wedding-trip  in  Europe,  Mrs.  Martin  made  haste 
to  give  them  a  dinner.  As  a  matter  of  course, 
Laurence  Laughton  was  the  first  one  to  be 
invited.  The  Duchess  of  Washington  Square 
could  not  give  a  dinner  to  Dear  Jones  and  Baby 
Van  Renssellaer  and  not  ask  their  best  friend, 
Uncle  Larry.  It  was  almost  as  much  a  matter 
of  course  that  Miss  Winifred  Marshall  should  be 
the  next  on  the  list,  for  the  close  intimacy  of 
Miss  Van  Renssellaer  and  Miss  Marshall  was 
well  known  to  the  Duchess.  Indeed,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  certainty  that  he  should  see 
Winifred,  Laurence  would  have  excused  himself 
from  the  dinner ;  he  was  in  no  mood  for  the  very 
small  talk  and  idle  babble  which  is  bandied  about 
briskly  at  a  fashionable  dinner.  Ordinarily  he 
was  an  expert  at  this  conversational  battledore 
and  shuttle-cock,  but  he  had  no  mind  now  for 
frivolity  and  froth.  He  was  too  fond  of  Olyphant 


THE  RETURN  OF  DEAR  JONES.          r6i 

not  to  take  his  fate  to  heart,  and  until  the  doubt 
was  resolved  Laurence  was  not  in  the  vein  for 
chaff  and  chatter.  Yet  to  sit  beside  Winifred  for 
an  hour  or  two,  or  even  to  be  able  to  gaze  upon 
her  across  the  table,  to  feast  his  eyes  with  a  sight 
of  the  woman  he  loved — this  was  a  felicity  he 
had  not  strength  to  forego.  And  he  did  not 
regret  that  he  had  mastered  his  repugnance 
when  he  saw  that  good  fortune  and  the  Duchess 
of  Washington  Square  had  decided  that  he 
should  take  in  to  dinner  Miss  Winifred  Marshall. 
She  greeted  him  cordially  as  though  she  were 
indeed  glad  to  see  him ;  there  was  a  heartiness  in 
her  welcome  which  he  had  never  before  noted 
since  love  had  sharpened  his  eyes  to  spy  out 
even  the  smallest  sign.  She  was  as  superbly  beau 
tiful  as  ever,  despite  the  dark  lines  under  the 
eyes,  telling  of  loss  of  sleep,  and  despite  the  look 
of  doubt  and  anxiety  which  lurked  upon  her 
face.  His  heart  beat  high  as  he  offered  her  his 
arm.  She  took  it  with  a  confiding  gesture,  as 
though  she  expected  counsel  or  comfort  from 
him.  During  the  dinner  he  noted  that  to  him 
at  least  she  revealed  none  of  the  haughtiness 
which  he  had  considered  one  of  her  chief  char 
acteristics,  and  which  he  had  even  thought  to 
accord  aptly  with  her  splendid  beauty.  She 
listened  to  him  with  deference ;  and  to  him  she  was 
all  gentleness.  She  was  a  tamed  bird,  and 
Laurence  wondered  what  had  wrought  the  change. 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

Twice  or  thrice  he  caught  her  eyes  fixed  on  him 
with  a  questioning  gaze,  as  though  she  were 
trying  to  make  up  her  mind.  After  he  had 
talked  to  her  for  an  hour,  he  began  to  resent  her 
attitude  toward  him ;  it  was  too  confiding ;  in  a 
word,  too  filial.  Now,  his  love  for  her  was  not 
paternal.  He  was  twice  her  age,  he  knew,  but  at 
forty  he  felt  himself  a  young  man  still.  He 
rebelled  against  a  confidence  which  seemed  to  say 
that  he  was  too  old  for  a  girl  to  need  to  be  on 
her  guard.  This  feeling  of  resentment  almost 
betrayed  him  into  harsh  and  hasty  words,  which 
he  luckily  cut  short  as  they  came  to  the  tip  of 
his  tongue.  Then,  as  he  looked  in  her  face  and 
saw  the  loneliness  and  the  melancholy  which 
were  always  to  be  seen  there,  now  intensified  and 
accentuated  by  doubt  and  dread,  he  felt  a  sudden 
pang  of  poignant  self-reproach.  He  was  moved 
almost  to  ask  if  he  could  not  be  of  service  to  her, 
and  to  bid  her  command  him,  for  she  had  the  right ; 
he  was  her  faithful  servant  forever,  and  it  was  a 
joy  for  him  to  be  at  her  beck  and  call,  for  he 
loved  her.  But  at  the  dinner-table,  with  neigh 
bors  next  to  them  on  each  side  and  near  to  them 
opposite,  there  was  no  fit  occasion  to  speak. 
They  talked  about  trifles  and  laughed  sadly 
about  nothing.  Twice,  when  there  was  an  ani 
mated  conversation  going  on  all  around  them, 
she  leaned  forward  and  made  ready  to  say  some 
thing  to  him,  which  apparently  she  did  not  wish 


THE  RETURN  OF  DEAR  JONES.  ^3 

to  be  heard  by  the  others.  As  it  happened  there 
was  an  accidental  lull  in  the  political  discussion 
which  had  been  raging,  and  the  young  statesmen 
about  the  dinner-table  stopped  fighting  their  battles 
o'er  and  turned  their  attention  first  to  the  Roman 
punch  and  then  to  the  canvas-backs.  The  same 
ill-fortune  pursued  them  after  dinner.  Twice  again 
Winifred  manoeuvred  skillfully  to  get  Uncle 
Larry  where  she  could  have  a  moment's  personal 
converse  with  him,  and  twice  her  innocent  scheme 
was  frustrated  by  accident.  The  first  time  was 
shortly  after  dinner,  and  then  Mr.  Hobson-Chol- 
mondeley  joined  them  at  once  and  began  to  com 
pliment  Miss  Marshall  on  her  dress.  Before 
Pussy  Palmer  could  capture  him  and  lead  him 
away,  a  little  group  had  formed  about  them.  The 
second  time  was  just  before  the  gathering  was 
about  to  break  up;  and  then  it  was  Mrs.  Jones 
who  bore  down  upon  them. 

"  Uncle  Larry,  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  talk 
to  Winifred  all  the  evening.  I  mean  to  take  her 
home  in  my  cab.  You  and  Lance  can  walk  up 
together ! " 

Against  this  peremptory  mandate  no  protest 
would  have  been  availing.  Uncle  Larry  bowed 
low  and  said  : 

"  Your  Majesty's  lightest  wish  is  to  me  a  law !  " 

And  then  Mrs.  Jones  bore  Winifred  away  that 
they  might  perform  the  mysterious  rite  known 
to  women  as  "  putting  on  their  things." 


164  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

When  they  reappeared,  duly  apparelled,  Dear 
Jones  cried  : 

"  Phyllis,  you  are  not  going  out  without  some 
thing  on  your  head  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  am,"  answered  the  bride  ;  "  I  don't 
need  anything.  I'm  not  light-headed  and  I 
shan't  blow  away." 

Already  Dear  Jones  knew  that  remonstrance 
was  useless.  He  sighed  sarcastically.  "  Uncle 
Larry,"  he  said,  "  you  see  how  well  she  loves, 
honors  and  obeys." 

Then  he  took  Winifred  down  the  steps  and 
put  her  into  the  cab,  while  Laughton  escorted 
Mrs.  Jones  and  ensconced  her  by  the  side  of 
Miss  Marshall.  As  the  cab  drove  off  the  bride 
called  back  to  them  : 

"  Uncle  Larry,  don't  keep  Lance  up  late.  It 
isn't  good  for  his  health  !  " 

"  Do  you  hear  that  ?  "  said  Dear  Jones  to  Uncle 
Larry ;  "  I'm  under  petticoat  government  already." 

"  You  seem  to  thrive  under  it,"  retorted  Lau 
rence,  as  they  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue  and 
began  to  walk  up  briskly  against  a  shrill- 
tongued  wind  which  made  them  button  their 
overcoats  tightly  across.  "  A  strong  govern 
ment  is  good  for  you ;  and  what  you  need  is 
one-woman  power." 

"  Then  I've  got  what  I  need,"  answered  Jones. 
"  I  kiss  my  chains,  of  course,  and  I  adore  my 
jailer;  but  I  am  bound  hand  and  foot." 


THE  RETURN  OF  DEAR  JONES.     ^5 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry ;  "  I 
suppose  you  can  get  a  divorce  in  Indiana  or 
Connecticut  if  she  treats  you  cruelly." 

"  It's  the  most  delicious  cruelty  in  the  world, 
Uncle  Larry — no  home  is  complete  without  it." 

"  If  you  have  a  home  already,"  Laughton  de 
clared,  "  you  must  have  been  pretty  quick  about 
it." 

"  I  was  quick — and  I  have  a  home.  It  is  a 
flat,  up  at  the  top  of  a  huge  house,  overlook 
ing  Central  Park — take  the  elevator.  We  have 
a  tiny  little  parlor,  and  a  tiny  little  library,  and  a 
tiny  little  kitchen,  and  a  tiny  little  dining-room, 
where  we  hope  soon  to  give  Uncle  Larry  a  tiny 
little  dinner.  I  have  grand  prospects  now — I 
can  see  all  over  the  Park.  I  have  the  first  floor 
counting  from  the  roof  down — it's  a  sky-parlor, 
excellently  adapted  for  astronomical  research. 
Altogether  it  is  the  most  delightful  little  den 
you  ever  saw,  although  there  isn't  room  enough 
in  the  whole  apartment  to  swing  a  mouse,  let 
alone  a  cat,  did  I  desire  to  indulge  in  that  feline 
amusement." 

"  I'm  glad  you  are  happy,  my  boy,"  said 
Uncle  Larry,  with  a  sigh. 

"Why  not?"  replied  Dear  Jones.  "Isn't 
everybody  happy  now  ?  My  malison  on  the 
man  who  dares  to  be  miserable  !  I'll  none  of 
him." 

As  they  passed  Tenth  Street,  Jones  happened 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

to  think  of  Olyphant,  and  he  asked  Laughton 
how  it  was  that  he  had  not  met  the  painter  since 
his  return. 

"  Don't  you  know  he  has  not  been  seen  since 
a  week  ago  to-night  ? "  Laurence  asked,  in 
astonishment. 

"  No,"  answered  Dear  Jones,  "  I  know  nothing 
at  all.  I  am  newly  married.  I  am  just  back 
from  Europe,  and  I  have  just  found,  furnished 
and  moved  into  a  flat.  I  have  heard  that  a 
President  of  these  United  States  was  elected  this 
week.  But  further  than  this  I  am  absolutely 
ignorant.  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

Before  Laughton  could  tell  him  the  half  of  the 
tale  they  had  arrived  before  Uncle  Larry's 
door. 

"  Come  in  for  a  few  minutes,"  he  said  to  Jones, 
"  and  smoke  a  cigar,  and  I  will  give  you  the  rest 
of  the  story  on  the  spot." 

"  You  can  have  me  for  twenty  minutes  pre 
cisely,"  remarked  Dear  Jones,  as  he  looked  at 
his  watch  while  Uncle  Larry  was  opening  the 
door.  "  I  have  not  been  home  later  than 
midnight  as  yet,  and  I  don't  want  to  spoil  my 
record." 

They  walked  into  the  library,  and  Laughton 
lighted  the  gas.  Jones  looked  up  at  the  cornice 
and  saw  the  silent  row  of  death-masks  standing 
out  in  lurid  relief. 

"  Ugh  ! "  he  groaned  with  a  shiver  ;  "  we  are 


THE  RETURN  OF  DEAR  JONES.  ify 

down  among  the  dead  men  here  with  a 
vengeance.  This  is  just  the  place  for  a  tale  of 
mystery.  Have  you  such  a  thing  as  an  oubliette 
in  the  house  ?  " 

"  You  don't  think  I  killed  him,  do  you  ? " 
asked  Laughton,  with  sudden  savageness. 

"Why  not  ?  "  Jones  replied,  laughing.  "  Per 
haps  you  have  him  concealed  somewhere  about 
the  premises,  in  solitary  confinement — in  the 
cellar,  for  instance." 

Laughton  listened  to  this  ill-timed  levity  with 
ill-concealed  impatience.  "  Shall  I  tell  you  about 
it  or  not  ?  "  he  asked,  abruptly. 

"  Fire  away,"  answered  Jones,  helping  himself 
to  one  of  Uncle  Larry's  little  cigars  from  a  bunch 
which  filled  a  cup  of  Japanese  cloisonne  on  the 
mantlepiece. 

Jones  leaned  back  in  an  easy  chair;  and 
Laughton  began  walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
as  he  set  forth  the  circumstance  of  Olyphant's 
last  day  in  New  York.  When  he  came  to  the 
search  for  the  artist  and  the  absolute  impossibility 
of  finding  any  clue  to  his  fate,  Jones  started  up 
and  said : 

"  I  say,  Uncle  Larry,  this  is  serious.  Now, 
just  stop  prowling  up  and  down  like  a  bear  in  a 
cage,  or  a  peripatetic  philosopher,  and  tell  me 
again  just  how  it  was  that  he  went." 

"  To  sum  up  in  as  few  words  as  possible," 
answered  Laurence,  "  he  was  standing  on  this 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

rug  here  as  I  am  now,  and  he  suddenly  dis 
appeared." 

"  He  vanished  and  made  no  sign,  just  as  though 
he  had  been  sitting  on  Aladdin's  carpet,  but  the 
carpet  is  still  here,  and  the  man  is  gone.  It  is  odd." 

"  Odd  ?  "  replied  Laughton,  impatiently ;  "  odd  ? 
It  is  absolutely  incomprehensible." 

"  That's  what  I  said,"  replied  Jones  ;  "  it  is  very 
odd  indeed.  One  thing  is  certain,  he  is  gone. 
Now,  I  don't  believe,  all  things  considered,  that 
he  went  willingly." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry, 
dubiously  ;  "  why  should  he  go  ?  " 

"  I  know  reasons  why  he  shouldn't,"  answered 
Jones. 

Laughton  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  intently, 
but  said  nothing. 

"  And  if  he  did  not  go  willingly,"  Jones  con 
tinued,  "  there's  a  bold,  bad  man  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  Now,  whom  do  you  suspect  ?  " 

"  Circumstances  seem  to  point  to  a  Greek, 
named  Constantine  Vollonides,  who — " 

"  What  ?  "  interrupted  Jones,  "  a  man  with  a 
scar  on  his  forehead  like  a  black  heart  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  Larry  asked,  in  aston 
ishment. 

"Why  not?"  answered  Jones.  "Didn't  he 
cross  with  me  in  the  City  of  Constantinople  a 
week  ago  ?  And  now  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
didn't  he  try  to  pump  me  about  Fred  ?  " 


THE  RETURN  OF  DEAR  JONES.  ifig 

It  was  Uncle  Larry's  turn  to  ask  for  informa 
tion. 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know,"  said  Dear  Jones.  "I 
met  the  man  in  the  smoking-room.  He  was  a 
white-faced  fellow  ;  indeed,  he  had  the  whitest 
face  of  any  man  I  ever  saw.  He  had  a  thin 
black  mustache  and  a  little  imperial,  and  pierc 
ing  black  eyes ;  in  fact,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
scar  on  his  forehead,  I  should  say  he  looked  just 
like  Edwin  Booth,  as  lago" 

"  That  is  the  man,"  Laughton  declared. 

"  He  seemed  a  good  enough  sort  of  a  fellow," 
continued  Dear  Jones,  "  and  I  thought  he  took  a 
fancy  to  me.  He  lost  a  bet  on  the  run  the  first 
day  and  another  the  next  day ;  of  course,  I  didn't 
trust  him :  I  fear  the  Greeks  even  bearing  gifts. 
But  he  stuck  to  me  and  we  let  him  into  a  little 
game  of  poker,  with  which  we  filled  up  the  long 
afternoon.  And  I  half  suspected  that  he  let  me 
win.  Then,  as  we  got  nearer  to  New  York,  he 
began  to  ask  all  sorts  of  questions  about  America 
and  the  people  here.  I  remember  I  mentioned 
you,  and  he  said  he  had  met  you  in  the  East  during 
the  war,  with  a  friend  of  yours,  an  artist,  Mr. 
Oripant.  I  said  '  Frederick  Olyphant  ? '  and  he 
said,  yes,  he  thought  Olyphant  was  the  name.  And 
then  he  asked  me  about  Fred,  casually,  of  course, 
but  pertinaciously.  I  see  now  that  he  was  pump 
ing  me.  Luckily  I  did  not  let  out  much,  though 
I  believe  I  did  tell  him  about  the  engagement." 


I/O 


THE   LAST  MEETING. 


"  What  engagement  ?  "  asked  Laughton,  in  a 
hard  voice,  and  with  a  sudden  chill  at  his  heart, 
as  he  stopped  short  in  his  walk  and  stood  before 
Jones. 

"  Why,  Fred's,  of  course.     Don't  you  know  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not  know." 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  it  was  a  secret.  You  must  keep 
it,  or  I  shall  get  well  scolded." 

"  I  can  keep  a  secret,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  slowly. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Phyllis  and  Winifred  were 
always  great  friends,  and  when  Winifred  was 
engaged,  just  like  a  girl,  she  felt  she  must  tell 
somebody,  so  she  wrote  it  over  to  Phyllis  under 
a  solemn  pledge  of  secresy,  and  Phyllis  got  the 
letter  just  before  we  sailed,  and  she  told  me  in 
strict  confidence,  as  between  man  and  wife.  And 
I  was  just  fool  enough  to  let  it  out  to  the 
Greek." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Frederick  Oly- 
phant  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  Winifred  ?  " 
asked  Laurence  Laughton,  slowly,  and  with  an 
effort  to  swallow  a  lump  in  his  throat. 

"  Yes  ;  but  it's  a  dead  secret,  remember ;  you 
mustn't  let  it  out  as  I  have  done ! " 

Laughton  sat  down  silently  and  stared  before 
him  at  the  empty  fireplace.  He  did  not  hear  the 
clock  strike. 

Dear  Jones  jumped  up.  "  Half-past  eleven  ?  "  he 
cried ;  "  my  time  has  come.  The  henpecked 
bridegroom  must  be  up  and  away.  So-long, 


THE  RETURN  OF  DEAR  JONES.  iji 

Uncle  Larry, — see  you  later."  As  they  passed 
into  the  hall,  Jones  turned  to  Laughton,  and  said, 
with  feeling,  "  Don't  think  me  heartless,  Uncle 
Larry,  because  I  am  lively  and  flippant.  I  trust 
nothing  has  happened  to  Fred — and  for  the  pres 
ent  I  refuse  to  believe  that  there  is  really  any 
cause  for  anxiety  ;  he  will  turn  up  all  right,  never 
fear !  But  if  I  can  do  anything  to  help  in  the 
search  for  him,  call  on  me  and  I  shall  be  on  deck 
at  once." 

Laurence  Laughton  went  to  the  door  with 
Jones  and  saw  him  depart.  Then  he  locked  and 
bolted  the  door,  and  put  out  the  gas  on  the 
ground-floor.  He  did  this  regular  nightly  work 
with  a  dull  mechanical  precision,  going  about  it 
with  fixed  and  staring  eyes,  like  a  man  walking 
in  his  sleep.  He  went  up  to  his  own  room  and 
threw  himself  on  the  bed,  and  buried  his  face  in 
the  pillow.  He  was  not  a  weakling,  to  weep,  but 
the  contact  of  the  cool  linen  was  refreshing  to 
his  throbbing  head  and  to  his  dry  and  burning 
eye-lids.  There  was  an  utter  physical  abandon 
ment  in  his  prone  position.  He  knew  the  worst 
now.  He  had  hardly  hoped  for  himself;  he  had 
suspected  that  there  was  another ;  he  had 
doubted  whether  that  other  was  the  missing  man 
or  not.  Now,  he  knew.  Winifred  loved  Fred — 
and  they  were  betrothed.  This  it  was  that 
Fred  could  not  tell  him  when  they  talked  just 
before  they  parted.  This  was  the  meaning  of 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

her  visit  to  his  studio  on  the  Saturday  afternoon ; 
and  this  was  the  secret  of  the  single  yellow  rose 
she  had  left  as  a  token  of  love.  Laurence  was 
glad  she  had  chosen  Fred,  for  he  was  worthy  of 
her :  he  would  make  her  happy  since  she  had 
set  her  heart  on  him :  he  was  a  noble  fellow,  and 
they  were  well  mated.  Laurence  wished  that 
Fred  were  standing  before  him  that  he  might 
give  him  his  good  wishes  and  bid  him  live  for 
her  and  make  her  happy.  He  could  master  his 
own  misery,  he  hoped,  if  only  he  knew  that  she 
were  happy.  Men  had  loved  before  him,  and  had 
lost;  and,  after  all,  Fred  was  more  worthy  of  her. 
Then,  all  at  once,  he  remembered  that  Fred  was 
not  before  him,  that  he  was  gone,  no  one  knew 
where  or  how,  that  for  ought  any  one  could  tell, 
he  might  be  dead.  Dead  ?  The  dreadful  word 
rang  in  his  brain.  Dead  ?  And  if  Fred  were 

dead,   why  then ?     Then    in    time   perhaps 

Winifred  might  forget  him.  If  Fred  had  disap 
peared  finally  and  forever,  in  time,  perhaps,  there 
might  be  a  chance  for  another  to  win  her. 

Laurence  Laughton  put  these  selfish  thoughts 
from  him  resolutely  and  at  once.  He  arose  and 
r  began  again  to  pace  the  floor.  For  Winifred's 
sake,  he  said  to  himself,  the  mystery  of  Fred's 
fate  must  be  cleared  up.  For  her  sake,  there 
must  be  certainty.  Fredrick  Olyphant  must  be 
found — alive  or  dead.  For  her  sake,  Laurence 
Laughton  hoped  that  he  might  be  found  alive 


THE  RETURN  OF  DEAR  JONES.  ^3 

and  well.  And  he  promised  himself  that  he 
would  not  give  over  the  quest  until  he  had 
fathomed  the  mystery. 

He  paused  in  his  walk  and  stood  for  a  moment 
at  the  window,  looking  out  into  the  black  night. 
From  a  dark  corner  of  the  room,  Bundle  o'  Rags 
had  been  watching  his  master,  and  the  little  dog 
judged  that  the  time  had  now  come  to  offer  sym 
pathy  ;  so  he  came  forward  gently  and  jumped 
into  the  chair  by  his  master's  side  and  thrust  his 
hairy  little  head  into  the  palm  of  his  master's 
hand.  And  immediately  Uncle  Larry  felt  com 
forted  by  the  thought  that  he  had  faithful  friends. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

FOUND   FLOATING    IN   THE   BAY. 

/CERTAIN  of  the  New  York  newspapers  are 
V^  accustomed  to  publish  on  Sunday  a  special 
column  devoted  to  a  consideration  of  What  is 
Going  on  in  Society;  it  is  an  impertinent  and 
an  offensive  custom,  borrowed  perhaps  from  the 
London  weekly  papers,  which  thrive  on  the 
retailing  of  petty  gossip  about  lords  and  ladies. 
On  the  Sunday  after  Mrs.  Martin's  dinner  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Delancey  Jones,  which  was  the  second 
Sunday  since  the  meeting  of  The  Full  Score, 
there  appeared  in  one  of  these  articles  a  para 
graph,  setting  forth,  in  the  forcible-feeble  style 
which  the  writers  of  such  stuff  are  wont  to  affect, 
that  much  interest  had  been  aroused  in  society 
by  the  remarkable  rumors  now  flying  about  town 
anent  the  extraordinary  disappearance  of  a  very 
promising  young  artist,  who  had  been  the  hero 
of  the  most  romantic  adventures  in  the  East,  and 
whose  pictures  had  been  greatly  admired  at  the 
last  exhibition  of  the  Royal  Academy  in  London 
and  at  the  last  Salon  in  Paris.  The  writer  of  the 
paragraph  kindly  gave  the  missing  man  a  certifi- 
J74 


FOUND  FLOATING  IN  THE  BAY. 


'75 


cate  of  good  character,  by  adding  that  the  gos 
sips  were  at  a  loss  to  suggest  a  reason  for  his 
sudden  flight,  as  no  scandal  had  hitherto  been 
attached  to  his  name. 

The  allusion  to  Frederick  Olyphant  was 
unmistakable,  and  it  made  hopeless  any  attempt 
to  keep  the  matter  out  of  the  papers.  On  the 
Monday  morning,  and  for  several  mornings 
thereafter,  the  first  place  in  the  newspapers  of 
New  York  was  given  up  to  a  statement  of 
the  circumstances  of  Olyphant's  disappearance. 
Every  detail  which  could  be  gleaned  by  the  most 
industrious  of  reporters,  or  invented  by  the  most 
imaginative,  was  laid  before  the  readers  of  the 
newspapers,  with  a  luxury  of  alluring  and  alliter 
ative  head-lines.  A  little  evening  paper  called 
the  Comet  surpassed  itself  and  broke  the  record  : 
under  the  familiar  heading  "  Frederick's  Freak;" 
and  accompanied  by  a  portrait  of  the  artist  and 
an  outline  sketch  of  the  incomplete  picture,  'The 
Sharpness  of  Death,'  it  gave  a  most  circumstan 
tial  account  of  Olyphant's  departure  for  Europe, 
in  company  with  an  unknown  lady  supposed  to 
be  the  wife  of  a  distinguished  member  of  the 
diplomatic  corps  at  Washington.  The  other 
newspapers  had  no  difficulty  in  showing  that  the 
artist  had  not  sailed  for  Europe  on  the  steamer 
indicated,  and  that  no  member  of  the  diplomatic 
corps  at  Washington  had  lost  a  wife — not  even 
the  Turkish  minister,  who  had  several,  and  could 


!76  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

have  spared  one  with  less  inconvenience  than  his 
colleagues.  The  Comet  corrected  these  unim 
portant  details,  and  re-affirmed  the  substantial 
accuracy  of  its  story,  which  it  strengthened  by  the 
publication  of  a  second  portrait  of  Olyphant,  a 
little  less  like  him  even  than  the  first.  As  Dear 
Jones  said,  if  the  artist  were  as  ugly  in  body  and 
mind  as  these  portraits  represented  him  to  be,  he 
was  fully  justified  in  committing  suicide  and  in 
escaping  from  his  misery  as  soon  as  might  be. 

In  an  obscure  corner  of  the  Gotham  Gazette  of 
Wednesday,  there  was  a  short  paragraph  which 
read  as  follows  : — 

11  Found  Floating  in  the  Bay. — A  tangled 
mass  of  seaweed,  floating  with  the  tide, 
caught  the  attention  of  little  Oscar  Brauti- 
gam  at  a  dock  at  Fort  Hamilton  yesterday 
morning.  Mixed  with  the  seaweed  was  a  tuft  of 
human  hair.  The  bright  little  boy  shouted  for 
assistance,  and  in  a  few  minutes  those  who  came 
at  his  call  drew  from  the  watery  seaweed  the 
dead  body  of  a  man.  The  body  had  been  in  the 
water  nearly  a  week,  as  far  as  could  be  judged  by 
appearances.  It  was  clothed  in  a  well-made  suit 
of  clothes,  the  work  of  Goole  &  Co.,  the  London 
tailors.  A  handsome  gold  watch  and  a  heavy 
gold  chain  was  found  on  the  person  of  the 
deceased,  together  with  a  knife,  and  a  pocket-book 
containing  nearly  twenty  dollars.  There  were 
no  papers  by  which  the  remains  could  be  identi- 


FOUND  FLOATING  IN  THE  BA  Y. 


1/7 


fied  nor  was  the  under-linen  marked.  The  body 
was  that  of  a  man  between  thirty  and  forty.  There 
were  no  marks  to  indicate  that  the  man  had  met 
with  violence.  It  is  supposed  that  he  committed 
suicide.  The  body  was  taken  in  charge  by 
Coroner  Stennett,  of  Bay  Ridge,  who  will  hold  an 
inquest  to-day." 

In  the  course  of  a  twelvemonth  the  dark 
waters  of  New  York  Bay  cover  many  a  crime 
and  hide  many  a  secret ;  not  always  do  they  give 
up  their  dead ;  and  yet  the  finding  of  a  floating 
body  is  common  enough  to  call  forth  no  special 
attention.  It  happened  however  that  the  para 
graph  above  was  read  by  Harry  Brackett.  "  Read 
your  own  paper, "  was  the  first  of  the  rules  by 
which  the  staff  of  the  Gotham  Gazette  was 
governed.  Harry  Brackett  read  his  own  paper; 
he  saw  this  paragraph,  and  he  started  at  once 
for  Bay  Ridge.  It  had  struck  him  that  an  ex 
amination  of  this  dead  man  and  of  his  effects 
might  solve  the  mystery  of  Olyphant's  fate. 

When  he  arrived  at  Bay  Ridge,  he  sought 
out  Coroner  Stennett,  whom  he  knew  of  old, 
and  with  whom  he  maintained  pleasant  relations, 
as  was  his  duty  as  a  reporter.  He  got  sight 
of  the  body,  but  he  found,  as  he  had  expected, 
that  from  long  exposure  it  was  beyond  recogni 
tion.  All  that  he  could  say  with  certainty  was 
that  the  dead  man  was  not  unlike  Olyphant,  and 
that  it  was  quite  possible  that  this  was  the  body 


IjS  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

of  Olyphant.  He  examined  the  clothes  on  the 
body,  and  he  noted  the  name  of  the  tailor  He 
discovered  that  the  collar  of  the  coat  was  torn  as 
though  in  a  struggle,  and  he  thought  he  could 
see  on  the  body  certain  slight  marks  of  blows. 
These  might  have  been  inflicted  since  death,  but 
Harry  Brackett  thought  not.  He  asked  to  see 
the  pocket-book,  but  he  found  nothing  in  this  of 
any  significance,  save  a  cutting  from  the  Gotham 
Gazette,  printed  on  the  morning  of  election  day  ; 
the  Tuesday  of  the  week  before  and  four  days 
after  Olyphant  had  disappeared.  If  therefore  the 
body  was  that  of  the  artist,  he  had  lived  four  days 
after  the  Friday  night  dinner  of  The  Full  Score. 
Then  the  Coroner  showed  him  the  watch  and 
chain.  The  watch  bore  the  monogram  "  F.  O." 
or  "  O.  F.,"  surmounted  by  an  inscription  in 
Oriental  characters.  Harry  Brackett  tore  a  thin 
sheet  of  paper  from  his  note-book,  and  took  a 
rubbing  of  the  side  of  the  watch  case.  Then  he 
examined  the  watch-chain,  which  had  not  been 
wholly  cleansed  from  the  seaweed  twisted  about 
it  in  the  water.  When  he  had  removed  this,  he 
made  a  discovery.  At  the  end  of  the  chain  there 
was  a  golden  claw,  like  a  vulture's,  clutching  in  its 
talons  a  leaden  bullet.  As  Harry  Brackett  was 
examining  this  singular  charm,  the  link  parted 
which  had  bound  it  to  the  chain,  and  the  claw 
remained  in  his  hand. 

Late  that   afternoon,   as    Laurence    Laughton 


FOUND  FLOATING  IN  THE  BAY. 


179 


was  gazing  vacantly  out  of  his  window  at  a  first 
slight  and  premature  flurry  of  snow  which  was 
obscuring  the  glory  of  the  November  sunset, 
there  came  a  sudden  ring  at  his  door.  A  few 
seconds  later,  Harry  Brackett  was  ushered  into 
the  parlor.  By  the  expression  on  his  face, 
Laughton  knew  he  had  news. 

"  You  have  heard  something,"  he  cried, 
striding  across  the  room  and  grasping  Brackett 
by  the  hand  ;  "  speak,  man  !  Out  with  it !  " 

"  Don't  tire  yourself  by  being  too  hasty," 
answered  the  reporter,  who,  despite  his  deep  in 
terest  in  Olyphant,  could  never  free  himself  from 
a  constitutional  levity  of  manner.  "  There  was 
a  man  once  died  in  a  hurry,  and  he  never  ceased 
to  regret  it." 

"  Tell  me—" 

"  Let's  begin  at  the  beginning,"  interrupted 
Brackett,  "  that'll  save  time.  Read  this  para 
graph."  And  he  handed  the  newspaper  which 
described  the  finding  of  the  body  at  Fort 
Hamilton. 

"  Surely  you  do  not  think  that  this  is  Fred  ?  " 
asked  Laughton. 

"Well,  now,  Uncle  Larry,  you  hold  your 
horses.  I'm  not  going  to  say  what  I  think  ;  I'll 
give  you  facts,  solid  facts." 

"  Go  on,  then,  in  your  own  way,"  said  Larry, 
wearily. 

Brackett  sat  down  on  the  piano-stool  and  began : 


!  go  THE  LAST  MEE  TING. 

"As  soon  as  I  read  that  paragraph  I 
made  a  straight  streak  for  Bay  Ridge.  I  know 
Coroner  Stennett;  we  used  to  go  to  school 
together  in  Brooklyn.  He  took  me  right  in  to 
see  the  remains.  They  are  unrecognizable — " 

"  Then  what  makes  you  think  that  Fred — " 
Laughton  began  again.  He  checked  himself,  as 
Brackett  raised  his  hand,  and  said,  "  Tell  me  all 
you  know  as  soon  as  you  can." 

"  Who  was  Fred's  tailor  ?  "  asked  the  reporter. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  "  I 
think  he  got  his  things  in  London,  but  I  don't 
remember  the  name — " 

"  What  is  Goole  &  Co.  ?  "  Brackett  inquired. 

"Goole  &  Co. — that's  the  name,"  answered 
Laurence  ;  "  why — " 

"  The  clothes  found  on  the  body  were  made 
by  Goole  &  Co." 

Laughton  sighed  gently.     "  Go  on,"  he  said. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  his  watch?"  Brackett  asked. 

"  Often." 

"  Was  it  marked  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"How?" 

"  It  had  his  monogram,  F.  O.,  with  an  inscrip 
tion  in  Arabic,  meaning  Allah  is  good,  and  pray 
ing  him  to  guard  the  possessor  of  the  watch. 
It  was  given  to  him  by  an  old  Turkish  merchant, 
whose  life  he  had  saved  during  the  war." 

"  Would  you  recognize  it  ?  "  asked  Brackett. 


FO UND  FL OA TING  IN  THE  BAY.          i g i 

"  Yes." 

The  reporter  laid  before  Uncle  Larry  the  thin 
slip  of  paper  on  which  he  had  made  a  rubbing 
of  the  side  of  the  watch-case.  Laughton  knew 
it  as  soon  as  he  saw  it. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that  is  his  watch." 

"  It  was  found  on  the  body,"  continued  the 
reporter,  "  and  at  the  end  of  the  watch-chain 
was  this."  And  he  opened  his  hand,  and  on  the 
palm  of  it  lay  the  golden  vulture's  claw,  grasp 
ing  the  bullet  of  lead. 

Laughton  looked  at  it  earnestly  ;  he  had  seen 
it  often  before ;  he  knew  how  superstitiously 
Olyphant  clung  to  it ;  and  he  saw  the  full 
significance  of  its  presence  in  his  house  under 
the  sad  circumstances.  "  So  there's  an  end,"  he 
said,  softly  to  himself,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  his  friend  had  gone,  he  gave  up  the  hope 
of  seeing  him  again,  alive  and  in  the  flesh. 

"  Your  are  too  previous,  Uncle  Larry,"  re 
sponded  the  reporter,  who  had  caught  Laughton's 
words,  "  altogether  too  previous.  So  was  I.  It 
seemed  to  me  a  pretty  clear  case,  and  I  thought 
The  Full  Score  would  have  to  order  a  rosewood 
casket,  and  a  silver  plate  engraved  with  Frederick 
Olyphant's  name.  I  confess  I  thought  there 
couldn't  be  any  doubt,  and —  " 

"  How  can  there  be  any  now  ? "  interrupted 
Laughton,  with  a  look  at  the  golden  claw  with  its 
leaden  bullet  as  it  lay  on  the  table. 


!  82  THE  LAST  MEE TING. 

"  It's  lucky  I  went  to  the  office  before  coming 
up  here.  I  had  a  talk  with  Bob  White ;  he  writes 
brevier  now,  but  he  doesn't  put  on  any  more  airs, 
and  we  get  on  first  rate.  I  told  him  what  I've 
told  you,  and  I  showed  him  what  I've  showed 
you.  First  thing  he  asked  was,  whether  I  was 
dead  sure  that  this  was  Fred's  body." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"Well,  I  had  to  tell  him  that  of  course  I 
wasn't  sure,  but  I  hadn't  any  doubts.  Then  he 
asked  me  if  this  body  had  the  scar  of  a  bullet- 
wound  in  the  left  arm  just  by  the  elbow.  Do 
you  remember  that  Fred  had  been  wounded 
there  ?  " 

"  He  had,"  answered  Laughton,  eagerly ;  "  it 
was  a  bad  wound,  and  it  left  an  ugly  scar.  Was 
this  scar  on — on  the  body  ?  " 

"  I  hadn't  noticed  it ;  in  fact,  I  thought  it 
wasn't  there,  but  to  make  sure  I  telegraphed  the 
coroner,  and  here's  his  reply." 

He  held  out  a  yellow  slip  of  paper,  which 
Laughton  seized  and  read  greedily.  It  said  that 
there  were  no  scars  on  the  left  arm  of  the  body 
except  near  the  wrist. 

"  Fred's  wound  was  in  the  upper  arm  near  the 
shoulder,"  Laughton  declared  when  he  had 
read  the  telegram.  "Then  he  is  not  dead! 
Thank  God  for  that!" 

"  You  are  altogether  in  too  much  of  a  hurry, 
Uncle  Larry,"  suggested  the  reporter.  "  This 


FOUND  FLOATING  IN  THE  BAY. 


183 


doesn't  prove  that  Fred  isn't  dead,  not  at  all. 
But  it  does  make  it  very  improbable  that  this  is 
his  body.  We  must  look  elsewhere  now.  In 
the  meantime,  we  wanted  to  make  sure  about 
this  corpse;  and  we  are  trying  to  find  out  who 
the  man  was,  who  was  found  dead  wearing  Fred's 
clothes." 

"  Have  you  found  out  ?  " 

"  Bob  White  asked  me  to  go  up  and  see  In 
spector  Barnes ;  and  I  did,  and  I  showed  him 
the  paragraph  which  was  in  the  man's  pocket- 
book.  There  were  three  or  four  First  Ward 
politicians  mentioned  in  that  paragraph,  regular 
heelers.  Now  that  was  a  clue." 

"  How  so?"  asked  Laurence. 

"  It  was  a  little  bit  of  a  clue,  but  it  was  big 
enough  to  pull  up  a  string  by.  If  this  man  cut 
out  a  paragraph  about  a  lot  of  First  Ward 
heelers,  he  probably  knew  them,  and  perhaps 
they  know  him.  And  when  a  man  who  has  on 
a  second-hand  suit  of  clothes,  and  who  has 
twenty  dollars  in  his  pocket,  in  a  brand-new 
pocket-book  too,  and  who  was  alive  on  the 
morning  of  election  day,  is  found  floating  in  the 
bay  a  week  after  election,  it  is  a  fair  inference 
that  when  he  was  alive  he  was  a  cheap  politician, 
a  loafer,  a  worker,  as  they  call  them  now,  who 
had  been  '  set  up '  or  '  staked '  by  his  boss  on  elec 
tion  morning,  who  bought  a  swell  second-hand  suit 
of  clothes,  and  who  got  into  an  election-day  row, 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

at  the  end  of  which  he  found  himself  in  the 
river.  That's  what  Inspector  Barnes  thinks,  and 
before  the  week  is  out  we  hope  to  know  all  about 
the  man  who  owns  the  remains  now  at  Bay 
Ridge." 

"  But  you  are  sure  now  that  it  is  not  Fred's 
body  ?  "  Laughton  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'm  sure  enough,  but  I  shall  be 
surer  yet  when  I  know  whose  body  it  is.  It 
will  be  a  pure  joy  to  me  to  restore  those  remains 
to  the  rightful  owner — and  it  will  give  the 
Gotham  Gazette  a  beat  on  all  the  other  papers." 

Laughton  lighted  a  little  cigar  and  sat  back  in 
his  chair.  "  If  you  find  out  who  this  man  is, 
it  will  help  us  to  find  out  what  has  become  of 
Fred." 

"  I  don't  see  why  ?  " 

"  Because  as  this  man  had  on  Fred's  clothes 
probably,  and  certainly  his  watch,  perhaps  he  had 
a  hand  in  robbing  Fred." 

"  That's  so,"  said  Brackett ;  "  and  now  you 
put  it  that  way,  I  don't  see  how  the  man  came  to 
have  both  Fred's  clothes  and  his  watch.  He 
could  have  bought  the  clothes  second-hand,  but 
where  did  he  get  the  watch  ?" 

"  True,"  answered  Laughton  ;  "  it  is  an  extra 
ordinary  coincidence  that  since  Fred  has  been 
robbed,  one  man  should  have  both  his  clothes 
and  his  watch, — unless  he  was  one  of  the  rob 
bers." 


FOUND  FLOATING  IN  THE  BAY. 


I85 


"  I  don't  believe  he  was.  Of  course,  he  may 
have  had  a  hand  in  it — some  of  those  ward- 
politicians  are  game  for  anything ;  but  I  doubt 
it." 

"  When  do  you  expect  any  news  ?  " 

"  Inspector  Barnes  has  his  men  at  work  now," 
replied  Brackett,  taking  his  hat  to  go,  "  and  we 
may  strike  the  trail  at  any  minute." 

Uncle  Larry  rose  and  again  offered  a  cigar  to 
his  visitor,  whom  he  accompanied  to  the  door. 
"  You  will  let  me  know  as  soon  as  you  hear  any 
thing?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'll  keep  you  posted  right  up  to  date,  and 
if  anything  has  happened  to  Fred,  we  will  make 
it  hot  for  the  other  man — you  hear  me  !  " 
Harry  Brackett  answered  as  he  went  down  the 
steps. 

The  next  day  the  Gotham  Gazette  alone,  of 
all  the  New  York  newspapers,  contained  the  full 
details  of  the  discovery  of  Frederick  Olyphant's 
watch  on  the  body  of  an  unknown  man  found 
floating  in  the  bay. 

Two  days  later  the  Gotham  Gazette  was  able 
to  show  that  the  body  in  the  hands  of  Coroner 
Stennett,  at  Bay  Ridge,  was  that  of  one  Micky 
Oliver,  a  First  Ward  loafer,  who  had  served  one 
term  in  State  prison  for  '  repeating.'  The  body 
was  positively  identified,  from  the  scar  on  the 
wrist,  by  his  brother,  the  keeper  of  a  low 
sailor's  boarding-house.  At  the  inquest  it  was 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

brought  out  that  Oliver,  after  having  been  very  hard 
up  for  months,  suddenly  appeared  on  the  Satur 
day  before  election,  with  a  fine  suit  of  clothes,  a 
new  hat,  a  gold  watch  and  chain,  and  a  well-filled 
pocket-book.  The  manner  of  his  death  remained 
without  explanation. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A   MESSAGE   FROM   THE   MISSING. 

IT  will  be  remembered  by  those  who  are 
familiar  with  the  chronicles  of  New  York 
society  that  the  winter  of  1884-85  was  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  on  record,  and  that  the  season 
began  unusually  early.  As  a  general  rule,  the 
great  balls  of  the  year  are  given  in  the  ten  or 
twelve  weeks  between  the  first  of  December  and 
Ash  Wednesday.  But  this  year  the  Van  Siclen 
ball,  which  proved  to  be  altogether  the  grandest 
affair  of  the  winter,  took  place  on  the  fourteenth 
of  November.  It  was  given  to  celebrate  the 
nuptials,  so  the  '  society  reporters '  informed 
the  world,  of  Miss  Miranda  Hitchcock,  the  only 
daughter  of  the  great  lawyer,  Abner  Hitchcock, 
the  senior  partner  of  the  firm  of  Hitchcock  & 
Van  Renssellaer,  with  Mr.  Edward  Van  Siclen, 
the  only  son  and  heir  of  old  Schermerhorn  Van 
Siclen,  who  was  at  once  the  leading  representa 
tive  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  of  the  Knicker 
bocker  aristocracy,  and  one  of  the  chief  oper 
ators  in  Wall  Street.  In  the  famous  corner  in 
Transcontinental  Telegraph,  old  man  Van  Siclen 

187 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

had  squeezed  Sam  Sargent  to  the  tune  of  nearly 
two  millions ;  and  although  Sargent  had  since 
made  another  million  or  so  '  on  the  Street,'  he 
had  not  wrenched  it  from  Van  Siclen,  who  had 
added  the  two  millions  of  spoils  to  the  snug 
little  sum  he  had  already  accumulated.  It  was 
the  contemplation  of  this  snug  little  sum  thus 
neatly  rounded  out,  which  suggested  to  old  man 
Van  Siclen  that  he  ought  to  do  something  for 
society,  and  he  seized  at  the  occasion  of  his  son's 
wedding  to  give  a  ball.  Of  course,  it  would 
have  been  more  in  accordance  with  the  usages 
of  society,  if  the  ball  had  been  given  by  the 
bride's  parents,  but  hypercriticism  like  this  did 
not  debar  any  one  from  accepting  Mrs.  Van 
Siclen's  invitation.  Even  during  the  excitement 
of  the  election,  rumors  were  flying  about  as  to 
the  wonders  which  the  Van  Siclen  ball  was  to 
disclose,  and,  as  soon  as  the  election  was  once 
settled,  society  gave  itself  up  to  the  ball.  It  was 
understood  that  a  temporary  ball-room  was  to 
be  built  over  the  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  Van 
Siclen  house ;  and  it  was  informally  asserted 
that  the  supper  would  be  served  as  soon  as  the 
first  guest  arrived,  and  that  it  would  continue  to 
be  served  on  demand  until  the  last  guest  de 
parted.  Mrs.  Van  Siclen  had  been  heard  to  say 
that  she  intended  that  it  should  be  as  easy  to 
get  terrapin  or  canvas-back  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning  as  it  was  at  midnight. 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MISSING. 

The  invitations  had  been  sent  out  nearly  six 
weeks  in  advance,  and  before  most  of  those  in 
vited  had  returned  to  town.  Laurence  Laugh- 
ton  had  found  his  awaiting  him  when  he  got 
back  from  Europe,  the  first  week  in  October. 
He  had  accepted  at  once,  as  he  took  a  curious 
delight  in  the  passing  show;  but  as  the  time 
drew  nigh  and  there  was  no  news  of  Frederick 
Olyphant,  he  gave  up  all  idea  of  going.  In  the 
fortnight  since  Olyphant's  disappearance,  in  the 
week  since  he  had  learned  of  Winifred's  engage 
ment  to  Fred,  Laurence  had  tasted  the  bitterness 
of  life,  and  he  had  learned  to  look  on  existence 
with  a  seriousness  hitherto  foreign  to  his  light- 
hearted  nature.  He  had  never  held  with  Gay, 
that  "  Life  is  a  jest  and  all  things  show  it,"  and 
he  had  done  his  work  in  the  world  nobly  and 
earnestly,  cheerfully,  yet  seriously.  But  to  him 
the  work  had  been  easy  in  the  main,  and  usually 
he  went  at  it  with  a  light  heart.  Now,  alas,  he 
saw  the  world  as  through  a  gray  curtain,  and  he 
felt  as  though  the  light  had  gone  out  of  his  life. 
In  sheer  joyousness  of  existence  he  had  never 
before  thought  that  the  question,  "  Is  life  worth 
living  ?  "  was  worth  discussion.  A  great  change 
had  come  over  him,  moral  rather  than  physical, 
though  the  lines  on  his  face  were  tense  and  set 
as  they  never  had  been  before.  His  friends  told 
him  that  he  was  not  looking  well,  and  advised 
him  to  take  a  holiday.  He  shook  his  head 


190 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


gently  and  answered  that  he  had  work  to  do.  He 
was  as  thoughtful  of  others  as  ever,  and  as 
considerate  and  kind-hearted.  Those  who  relied 
on  him  for  advice  found  him  as  prompt  and  as 
apt  as  he  was  wont  to  be. 

He  had  not  seen  Winifred  since  the  Duchess's 
dinner  to  Dear  Jones  and  his  bride,  and  he 
wondered  why  she  had  looked  at  him  appeal- 
ingly,  as  though  she  had  something  to  commu 
nicate  if  she  only  might  venture.  He  did  not 
dare  to  conjecture  how  the  newspaper  articles, 
now  appearing  every  morning  and  every  evening, 
might  affect  her.  He  loved  her,  but  he  had  to 
confess  to  himself  that  he  knew  little  of  her 
character  or  of  its  strength.  That  she  was  a 
woman  with  unusual  force  of  will,  and  an 
abnormal  power  of  self-restraint,  he  knew ;  and 
he  believed  that  he  had  seen  enough  of  her  to 
guess  that  the  haughty  coldness  which  struck 
strangers  as  her  chief  characteristic  was  but  the 
thin  shell  masking  a  tender,  loving,  passionate 
nature.  It  was  the  outward  sign  of  the  reserve  of  a 
proud  and  sensitive  girl,  conscious  of  strong  feel 
ings,  and  knowing  herself  capable  of  a  depth  of  pas 
sion  of  which  she  chose  not  to  be  suspected.  He 
knew  all  the  circumstances  of  the  strange  story  of 
her  birth,  and  he  knew  how  these  circumstances, 
and  the  cloud  of  gossip  which  always  encompassed 
her  about  on  account  of  these  circumstances,  must 
have  fretted  her  sensitive  soul  from  her  youth  up. 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MISSING.         Io/i 

About  ten  o'clock  on  the  night  of  the  great 
Van  Siclen  ball,  Laurence  Laughton  was 
silently  pacing  the  ground  floor  of  his  house, 
now  resolutely  thinking  out  the  problem  of 
Olyphant's  disappearance  from  those  rooms 
exactly  a  fortnight  before,  and  now  letting  his 
thoughts  run  away  to  Winifred  Marshall,  her 
beauty,  his  hopeless  love  for  her,  the  sad  history 
of  her  childhood,  and  the  appeal  to  him  which 
he  fancied  he  had  read  in  her  eyes  when  last 
they  met.  So  absorbed  was  he  in  his  thoughts, 
both  bitter  and  sweet,  that  he  did  not  hear  the 
ring  of  his  door-bell,  nor  the  passing  of  the  faith 
ful  Bridget  to  answer  it.  It  was  not  until  the 
parlor-door  opened,  and  a  lady  entered,  that  he 
was  aroused  from  his  meditation. 

As  he  paused  in  his  walk  to  take  note  of  this 
unexpected  interruption,  the  lady  threw  back 
her  hood.  It  was  Pussy  Palmer,  dressed  for  the 
ball,  and  with  her  hair  glittering  with  diamonds. 

"  Miss  Palmer !  "  Laughton  cried,  in  astonish 
ment. 

"  And  Miss  Palmer  is  not  alone,"  replied  the 
vivacious  Pussy,  as  another  lady  appeared  in  the 
doorway  by  her  side.  "  Guess  who  this  is  ?  " 

"  Winifred !  "  cried  Laughton,  as  she  threw  off 
the  lace  veil  which  had  covered  her  head;  "  Miss 
Marshall,  I  mean." 

"  You  didn't  expect  us,  did  you,  Uncle  Larry?" 
asked  Miss  Pussy. 


192 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


Laurence  did  not  answer  her ;  he  was  gazing 
at  Winifred.  To  his  mind,  he  had  never  seen  her 
look  more  radiantly  beautiful.  The  full  ball- 
dress  revealed  to  the  best  advantage  her  superb 
figure,  well  developed  despite  its  girlish  grace. 
The  face  was  weary  and  sad,  and  there  was  a 
burning  spot  on  each  cheek  which  told  of  ex 
citement.  As  she  entered  the  room,  she  gave 
him  a  frank  and  appealing  look  from  her  honest 
and  trustful  eyes :  it  was  the  same  look  he  had 
seen  in  them  a  week  before. 

"  It's  a  surprise  party  Winnie  and  I  have  got 
up  for  you,"  continued  Pussy,  "  and  you  are  very 
rude  not  to  say  you  are  delighted  to  see  us." 

"  But  I  am  delighted,"  answered  Laughton, 
recovering  himself,  "  and  I  hasten  to  say  so." 

Winifred  stood  still  near  the  door,  and  from 
the  burning  red  spot  of  her  cheeks,  a  blush 
spread  slowly  over  her  face  and  neck. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  that  it  is  leap-year  ?  " 
the  lively  Miss  Palmer  went  on,  with  a  certain 
bewitching  friskiness  of  manner  suggesting  the 
amusing  ways  of  a  little  kitten,  and  thus  giving 
point  to  her  nickname.  "  Have  you  forgotten  that 
there  is  only  one  more  month  ?  We  old  maids  must 
seize  time  on  the  fly,  or  we  shall  lose  our  last  chance. 
Can't  you  guess  what  we  are  here  for  ?  It's  only  to 
ask  you  to  marry  one  of  us ;  take  your  choice ;  if 
you  don't  see  what  you  want,  ask  for  it,  and  please 
report  any  incivility  to  the  proprietor !  " 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MISSING.         ^ 

"Oh,  Pussy!"  was  Winifred's  reproachful  in 
terruption. 

"I'm  all  right,  Winnie;  I'm  breaking  the  ice, 
that's  all,"  explained  Miss  Palmer  in  self-defence. 
"  It  wouldn't  do  to  tell  Uncle  Larry,  all  at  once, 
that  we  have  come  on  important  business." 

"  You  are  welcome  here  always,  whatever  may 
bring  you,"  said  Laurence  ;  "  now  sit  down  and 
make  yourselves  at  home." 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  Uncle  Larry,  I'll  let  my 
maid  help  me  off  with  my  things ;  she's  in  the 
hall ; "  and  Pussy  Palmer  stepped  to  the  door, 
and  cried,  "  Venez  done,  Titine!" 

As  a  neat-looking  French  maid  entered  the 
room  and  said  "Bon  soir,  M'sieu,"  Pussy  explained 
that  "  Ernestine  doesn't  speak  a  word  of  English, 
so  you  can  talk  right  out  in  meeting  just  as  if 
she  was  a  graven  image." 

Ernestine  aided  the  two  girls  in  removing 
their  cloaks,  which  she  placed  on  the  piano. 

"  Now,  Uncle  Larry,  let's  be  serious,"  began 
Pussy,  glancing  about  the  room  with  a  short 
sighted,  half  closing  of  the  eye-lids,  an  involuntary 
trick  of  hers,  Avhich  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley 
had  declared  to  be  "  very  fetching." 

"Am  I  not  serious  ?"  said  Laurence,  in  a  tone  of 
voice  which  made  Winifred  gaze  at  him  earnestly 
and  wonderingly. 

"  We  have  come  here  for  a  talk,  a  consultation 
with  you — at  least,  Winnie  has ;  and  I  came  to  play 
13 


I94 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


propriety,"  Miss  Palmer  continued,  with  the 
hearty  frankness  which  was  one  of  her  char 
acteristics. 

Laughton  turned  toward  Winifred,  whose  blush 
came  back  again,  though  she  met  his  eyes  calmly 
and  steadily. 

"  Miss  Marshall  knows  that  she  may  command 
me,"  said  Laughton,  inwardly  chafing  against 
the  cold  formality  of  the  phrase. 

"  Then  you  give  me  a  book  ;  anything  will  do. 
I  never  read,  you  know,  so  everything  is  bound 
to  be  fresh  to  me ;  and  I'll  take  a  seat  in  the 
library  with  Titine  here,  and  Winnie  can  have 
her  talk  out  with  you." 

Laughton  crossed  to  the  case  where  he  kept 
his  French  books,  and  he  took  down  two.  He 
gave  '  1'Abbe  Constantin '  to  Miss  Palmer,  and 
he  handed  to  Ernestine  one  of  the  adventurous 
tales  of  M.  Fortune  du  Boisgobey.  He  rolled  a 
comfortable  arm-chair  before  the  hickory  fire  in 
the  library,  and  he  saw  Miss  Pussy  curl  herself  up 
in  it  as  snugly  as  she  could  without  damaging 
her  gorgeous  apparel. 

Then  he  went  back  into  the  parlor,  where 
Winifred  still  stood  motionless,  with  her  arm 
resting  lightly  on  the  piano.  She  started  for 
ward  impulsively,  with  outstretched  hand. 

"Mr.  Laughton,"  she  said;  "I  mean,  Uncle 
Larry,  for  it  is  only  by  thinking  that  you  have 
been  kinder  than  a  relative  that  I  am  encouraged 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MISSING.         jpcj 

to  come  to  you.  I  felt  that  I  must  come ;  I 
could  not  help  it.  I  know  you  are  surprised  to 
see  me  here,  and  in  this  dress.  You  need  not 
deny  it ;  your  eyes  betrayed  you." 

Laurence  had  been  about  to  protest,  but  he 
changed  his  mind.  He  recognized  her  as  a 
woman  to  whom  a  man  might  tell  the  truth.  He 
drew  up  a  chair  for  her.  When  she  was  seated, 
he  sat  down  in  front  of  her. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  said;  "I  have 
wanted  for  a  week,  but  I  had  no  chance  till  now. 
I  told  Pussy,  and  it  was  she  who  suggested  our 
coming  here  to  night  on  our  way  to  the  ball. 
Yes;  you  may  well  look  surprised.  I  know 
all  you  can  say,  and  I  feel  it  myself  more  than 
you  can  say  it.  The  man  I  love,  the  man  I  am 
going  to  marry,  is  missing,  and  people  think  he 
may  be  dead — and  here  am  I  dressed  for  a  ball. 
And  I  shall  go  to  the  ball,  and  dance,  and  try  to  be 
merry,  while  my  heart  aches.  I  shall  have  as 
good  a  time  as  I  can ;  if  I  did  not,  I  think  I  should 
lie  down  and  die.  I  must  forget  for  a  little  while. 
If  I  do  nothing  but  think,  think,  think,  all  the 
time,  I  shall  go  mad.  That's  why  I  am  on  my 
way  to  the  ball,  and  that's  why  I  mean  to  be  as 
gay  as  I  can." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  dried  the  tears 
which  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

"  Of  course,  I  should  not  do  this,"  she  continued, 
"  if  people  knew  that  I  was  engaged  to  Fred,  for 


!g6  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

it  would  not  be  paying  him  the  respect  he 
deserves ;  but  nobody  knows  it,  and  I  am  free  to 
do  as  I  please,  and  to  govern  my  life  as  I  like. 
It's  a  poor  privilege,  but  I  may  as  well  take  advan 
tage  of  it."  She  twisted  up  the  handkerchief 
which  she  had  moistened  with  her  tears.  "  That 
is  why  I  am  going  to  the  ball,"  she  said,  reso 
lutely.  "  Now,  I  will  tell  you  why  I  am  here." 
She  looked  about  the  parlor  with  a  yearning 
curiosity,  and  the  tears  came  afresh.  "  I  wanted  to 
see  the  room  where  he  was  last ;  and  I  wanted 
you  to  tell  me  all  about  it,  all  about  his  sudden 
disappearance." 

Laurence  had  been  watching  her,  with  infinite 
pity  in  his  eyes.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  tell  you 
anything  and  everything  I  can,"  he  said,  "  but 
do  you  think  that  it  is  best  to  dwell  on — " 

She  raised  her  head  and  sat  upright,  as  she 
interrupted  him :  "  If  I  can  bear  to  read  it  in  a 
cruel  newspaper,  cannot  I  hear  it  from  you  ?  Do 
not  deny  me  this;"  and  the  resolute  ring  in  her 
voice  softened  into  pleading  tones.  "  Tell  me  the 
whole  story,  everything.  I  want  to  hear  it  all. 
Begin  at  the  beginning  and  go  on  to  the  very  end." 

Thus  adjured,  Laurence  did  as  she  bade  him. 
He  began  at  the  beginning,  and  told  the  whole 
story.  She  listened  with  glistening  eyes,  glanc 
ing  about  the  room  as  he  set  forth  the  strange 
sequence  of  events. 

When  he  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  tale,  she 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MISSING.         i^j 

sat  silent  for  a  few  moments.  At  last,  she  drew 
a  long  breath  and  raised  her  head  again.  "  It  is 
no  use,"  she  sighed.  "  I  cannot  understand  it. 
I  do  not  see  how  he  went  out,  or  why.  But  I 
know  he  is  not  dead  !  " 

"  You  know  it  ?  "  asked  Laurence. 

"  I  feel  it,  I  am  sure  of  it.  Why,  Uncle  Larry, 
he  is  all  I  have  in  the  world,  and  if  I  lose  him, 
what  have  I  left  ?  " 

Involuntarily,  Laurence  held  out  his  hand  to 
her.  She  took  it  without  hesitation,  and 
returned  the  gentle  pressure. 

"  I  know  I  have  you,  Uncle  Larry,  and  Pussy, 
and  I  have  other  friends,  too,  who  are  kind  to 
me,  in  their  way,  but  I  loved  him  !  " 

Laurence  bore  this  without  wincing;  he 
stiffened  a  little,  but  he  made  no  other  sign. 

"  I  have  found  life  lonely  enough,  at  best,  and 
desolate  enough,"  Winifred  continued,  "but  if 
he  were  dead — "  Here  the  tears  filled  her  eyes 
again,  and  her  rising  sobs  choked  her. 

"  But  he  is  not  dead.  I  shall  see  him  again. 
I  do  not  know  why  he  went  or  where  he  is,  but 
I  shall  see  him  again — that  I  know,  as  I  know 
anything.  I  cannot  think  what  has  become  of 
him,  but  he  is  not  dead." 

Laurence  caught  the  contagion  of  her  faith, 
and  his  doubt  gave  way  to  hope. 

"  Then  you  do  not  think  he  went  away  from 
here  of  his  own  accord  ?  "  he  asked. 


198 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"  Of  course  not,"  she  replied.  "  Why  should 
he  ?  I  was  here." 

Laurence  felt  the  force  of  this  confident 
expression  of  trusting  affection. 

"  And  he  has  not  committed  suicide,  as  some 
people  foolishly  suggest ;  of  course,  they  do  not 
know  him  as  I  know  him.  Why  should  he 
commit  suicide  ?  He  must  have  been  certain  of 
my  love  for  him.  You  do  not  think  he  could 
have  doubted  that,  Uncle  Larry,  for  all  I  teased 
him  so,  and  treated  him  so  shamefully  ?  " 

Fortunately  for  Laurence,  he  saw  that  he  was 
not  expected  to  reply.  To  express  her  pent-up 
feelings  was  a  great  relief  to  Winifred,  but  she 
looked  for  no  commonplace  consolation. 

"  I  did  behave  badly  to  him  ;  how  I  wish  he 
were  here  that  I  could  beg  his  pardon."  She 
stretched  out  the  damp  handkerchief  slowly,  and 
then  suddenly  crushed  it  into  a  ball  as  she  looked 
up  again  and  said,  "We  had  quarrelled;  that  is 
what  has  made  me  feel  so  badly.  It  was  all  my 
fault,  of  course ;  he  was  always  kind  and  generous ; 
and  I  shall  never  forgive  myself,  never."  For 
the  first  time  Winifred  Marshall  broke  down 
completely ;  she  laid  her  head  back  wearily  and 
sobbed.  She  had  a  strong  will,  and  she 
used  it.  She  set  her  teeth  and  stopped  the  sobs. 
Then  she  sat  erect,  and  said,  "  I  must  not  give 
way  like  this.  If  I  give  way  now,  I  am  lost.  I 
must  keep  up  somehow,  and  I  will."  She  drew 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MISSING. 


I99 


a  long  breath,  and  looked   Laughton  straight  in 
the  eye. 

"  Before  we  quarrelled  he  had  begged  a  ring 
of  mine,  and  I  let  him  wear  it,  because  he  had  lost 
his  own.  Mine  was  an  opal,  and  I  suppose  it 
was  that  which  has  brought  this  bad  luck  ;  he 
was  always  superstitious  about  stones,  and  I  see 
now  that  he  was  right.  I  thought  he  would 
come  in  the  morning  to  give  me  my  ring  back  again, 
but  he  never  came.  I  waited  for  him  all  the 
morning,  but  he  did  not  come.  Nothing  came 
but  a  letter." 

"  A  letter  ?  "  said  Laurence,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  he  wrote  me  from  here,"  she  answered. 

"  I  remember  now,"  rejoined  Laurence,  recalling 
the  note  Olyphant  had  asked  the  faithful  Bridget 
to  post  for  him. 

"  As  he  did  not  come  to  me,  I  thought  I  would 
go  to  him.  It  was  Saturday  afternoon,  and  his 
studio  was  always  open  to  visitors.  Pussy  went 
with  me,  but  he  was  not  there.  We  went  up  to 
the  studio,  and  I  found  the  ring  he  had  lost." 

"  So  it  was  you  ?"  said  Laughton. 

"  Did  you  hear  of  us  ?  "  she  replied.  "  I  found 
the  ring  in  his  studio  ;  it  is  a  cat's-eye,  and  I  have 
it  now  ;  and  he  has  mine.  The  cat's-eye  is  lucky, 
you  know,  and  he  lost  his  ;  and  the  opal  is  un 
lucky  and  he  is  wearing  mine.  It  is  no  wonder 
we  are  all  in  doubt  and  trouble." 
"  You  said  you  had  a  letter  ?"  Laurence  inquired. 


2QO  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  return  of  the 
blush. 

Laurence  saw  the  color  cover  her  face,  and 
would  have  been  glad  to  have  said  no  more,  but 
he  had  no  right  to  neglect  any  possible  source 
of  information  as  to  Olyphant's  fate.  "  Did  it  con 
tain  any  suggestion  as  to  his  future  movements  ?  " 
he  asked,  gently,  taking  his  eyes  from  hers. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  firmly ;  "  but  you  shall 
see  it;  perhaps  it  is  best."  She  put  her  hand  into 
her  dress,  where  the  letter  lay  concealed,  next  to 
her  heart.  "  Here  it  is,"  she  said,  and  she  kissed 
it.  "  I  will  read  it  to  you." 

"  It  may  not  be  necessary, — if  you  think — " 

"  I  will  read  it,"  she  said,  with  gentle  firmness ; 
"  it  is  better  that  I  should,  and  it  comforts  me 
to  hear  him  say  that  he  loves  me." 

She  unfolded  the  letter  and  began  to  read  it: — 

"  My  darling  Winifred : 

"  I  am  here  at  Uncle  Larry's,  and  the  boys 
are  having  a  good  time  in  the  dining-room ;  I  have 
left  them  for  a  moment  to  write  to  you.  I  could 
not  let  the  night  go  by  without  telling  you  that 
I  love  you,  and  that  I  cannot  live  without  you. 
My  head  is  in  a  whirl  of  agony  at  the  thought  of 
losing  you.  I  do  not  remember  what  we  said  to 
one  another  this  afternoon — and  why  should  we 
recall  hard  words  spoken  in  anger?  I  do  not 
remember  why  we  quarrelled,  but  I  confess  now 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MISSING.         2OI 

that  it  was  my  fault ;  I  know  it  could  not  have 
been  yours,  Winifred.  I  am  infirm  of  temper  at 
times,  as  you  have  seen,  and  I  may  try  your 
patience  sorely, — but  you  will  make  the  best  of 
me,  won't  you,  my  darling?  I  am  altogether 
unworthy  of  you — I  know  it  only  too  well — but  I 
love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you!  Forgive  me, 
then,  because  of  my  love.  Forgive  me,  my  darling, 
and  let  me  come  to  you  to  receive  my  pardon,  for 
the  last  time,  for  there  must  never  again  be  any 
disagreement  between  us.  If  we  quarrelled  again, 
perhaps  you  could  not  forgive  me  again  ;  and  if 
I  lost  you,  I  should  lose  all  there  is  in  the  world 
worth  living  for  and  working  for.  Life  is  of  no 
use  to  me,  without  you. 

"  Good-night,  my  darling.  I  shall  feel  better 
now  that  I  have  begged  you  to  forgive  me. 
Forgive  and  forget  is  a  poor  motto  for  me  just 
now,  for  I  want  you  to  forgive  me,  but  if  you 
were  to  forget  me,  I  should  die. 

"Good  night,  once  more,  my  Winifred. 

"  Your  Fred." 

Winifred  read  this  through  to  the  end  without 
again  breaking  down,  although  her  voice  trem 
bled  as  she  lingered  over  the  tender  words. 

"  There,"  she  said  to  Laurence,  "  you  see  he  is 
not  dead.  He  cannot  be  dead ;  I  love  him  so, 
oh,  Uncle  Larry,  I  love  him  so  !  I  think  of  him 
day  and  night, — even  in  my  prayers  to  God,  my 


202  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

thoughts  wander  to  him.  It  would  be  so  hard  to 
lose  him — I  could  never  love  any  one  else.  Oh, 
Uncle  Larry,  can't  you  do  something  to  comfort 
me  ?  I  know  he  is  not  dead,  but  I  am  so  miser 
able  while  he  is  away !  " 

And  again  the  tears  flooded  her  eyes,  and  she 
bent  her  head  forward,  weeping  over  the  hand 
which  Laurence  had  extended  in  sympathy. 

"  You  were  his  best  friend,  and  so  I  came  to 
you.  But  I  know  there  is  nothing  to  be  done. 
I  must  be  brave  and  wait ;  he  will  come  back  to 
me.  Do  not  mind  my  crying — there,  you  see  I 
have  stopped ;  I  can  cry  and  nobody  will  guess 
it  ten  minutes  after." 

The  clock  in  the  library  struck  eleven. 

"  Come,  girls,"  said  Pussy  Palmer,  closing  her 
book,  and  rising  ;  "  time's  up." 

"  I  know  it,"  answered  Winifred  ;  "  I  will  be 
ready  in  a  minute.  I  wonder  if  girls  in  the 
country  who  read  about  girls  in  the  city  going 
to  balls  ever  think  that  they  may  take  sad  hearts 
with  them.  But  if  going  to  balls  will  help  me 
keep  up  my  courage,  I  shall  go ;  and  I  shall  do 
my  best  to  enjoy  myself,  as  I  know  Fred  would 
want  me  to.  I  must  swim  on  the  topmost  wave 
of  society  and  gaiety ;  if  I  go  under  for  a  second 
I  shall  drown.  And  I  must  not  drown  or  die ;  I 
must  be  ready  for  him.  He  will  come  back  to 
me,  I  know  it.  All  I  have  to  do  is  to  keep  up 
till  he  comes  to  me." 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MISSING. 


203 


These  last  few  words  had  been  said  with  fever 
ish  volubility,  and  the  red  spot  in  her  cheek 
burned  fiercer  than  ever.  She  threw  on  her 
cloak,  hastily  fastening  it  at  the  throat,  and  she 
took  up  the  bunch  of  yellow  roses  she  had  held 
in  her  hand  as  she  came  in. 

"  I  have  to  thank  you,  Uncle  Larry,  for  listen 
ing  to  me  patiently.  I  know  I  have  troubled 
you,  but  it  relieves  me  so  to  talk  to  a  kind  friend 
on  whose  strength  I  feel  I  can  lean." 

Laurence  answered  that  she  might  always 
rely  on  him.  Ernestine  gathered  up  their 
belongings,  and  there  was  a  rustle  of  trains,  and 
then  they  were  gone.  He  put  them  into  the 
carriage ;  and  as  he  came  up  his  steps  he  felt  the 
first  drops  of  the  storm  which  had  been  threat 
ening  all  the  afternoon.  Before  he  could  get  on 
his  overcoat,  the  rain  was  falling  in  torrents ;  he 
buttoned  the  coat  about  him  and  walked  forth 
into  the  storm.  He  went  up  Fifth  Avenue,  pass 
ing  the  brilliantly-lighted  mansion  of  Schermer- 
horn  Van  Siclen,  and  thrusting  himself  through 
the  crowd  of  curious  spectators  who  braved  the 
rain  to  see  the  arriving  guests  as  they  tripped 
under  the  awning  from  their  carriages  to  the 
door.  Then  he  went  on  up  to  Central  Park, 
and  he  walked  around  the  Park  before  he 
turned  homeward.  The  first  faint  indications  of 
the  dawn  were  visible  in  the  East  as  Laurence 
Laughton  came  back  to  his  own  house. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

NO    NEWS. 

FOR  days,  for  weeks  after  the  unexpected 
visit  of  Winifred  Marshall  and  Pussy 
Palmer  to  Laurence  Laughton,  there  was  no 
news.  There  was  absolutely  no  change  in  the 
situation ;  and  the  anxious  inquirers,  despite  all 
their  efforts,  were  no  nearer  to  a  solution  of  the 
mystery  of  Olyphant's  disappearance.  All  that 
money  could  do,  was  done;  and,  at  Laughton's 
expense,  the  leading  detectives  of  New  York 
had  put  their  wits  to  work  to  find  a  clue  which 
might  lead  them  into  the  heart  of  the  labyrinth. 
It  was  all  in  vain.  Thanksgiving  came  and 
went,  leaving  in  the  hearts  of  Olyphant's  friends, 
and  of  the  woman  who  loved  him,  no  new  cause 
for  giving  thanks.  Day  followed  day,  and  week 
followed  week,  and  they  remained  in  the  same 
mist  of  uncertainty  and  doubt. 

One  day  in  December,  Laurence  Laughton 
received  a  note  from  Robert  White,  asking  him 
to  go  with  him  that  afternoon  to  the  Police 
Headquarters  in  Mulberry  Street,  to  see  Inspec 
tor  Barnes,  who  had  requested  them  to  call,  as 
204 


NO  NEWS. 


2O5 


he  had  something  to  communicate.  Laughton 
and  White  presented  themselves  in  the  office  of 
the  inspector  at  the  hour  he  had  named.  He 
received  them  with  the  same  courtesy  he  had 
displayed  on  their  previous  visit. 

"  It  is  a  very  little  bit  of  news  I  have  for  you, 
gentlemen,"  he  said,  when  they  were  seated. 

"  Every  little  helps,"  suggested  White. 

"  No  man  despises  trifles  less  than  I,"  replied 
the  inspector.  "  If  my  experience  has  taught 
me  nothing,  it  has  at  least  taught  me  this — many 
a  mickle  makes  a  muckle,  as  the  Scotch  say." 

"  What  is  your  mickle  ?  "  asked  Laughton. 

"  Only  this,"  answered  the  inspector:  "  On  the 
night  that  Mr.  Olyphant  was  missing,  a  Greek 
named  Constantine  Vollonides  left  New  York  on 
the  midnight  train  for  Chicago.  This  Greek  bore 
a  grudge  against  your  friend,  and  you  think  it 
possible  that  he  had  a  hand  in  the  disappearance?  " 

"  I  am  convinced  of  it,"  Laughton  declared. 

"  Very  well,"  continued  Inspector  Barnes ;  "  in 
that  case  we  shall  have  accomplished  something, 
if  we  can  lay  hands  on  the  Greek." 

"  Have  you  got  him  ?  "  interrupted  Laughton, 
eagerly. 

"  No,"  answered  the  officer,  "  but  we  have 
news  of  him.  I  have  been  trying  for  now  nearly 
a  month,  in  fact,  ever  since  you  first  came  to  me, 
to  trace  this  Vollonides.  Only  last  night  I 
received  the  first  definite  information  of  a  kind 


2o6  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

that  I  could  rely  on.  The  Greek  bought  a  ticket 
for  Chicago,  and  he  left  New  York  on  the  mid 
night  train  for  Chicago ;  that  was  all  we  knew. 
I  could  not  find  out  whether  he  ever  arrived  in 
Chicago  or  not.  Now  as  I  say,  I  have  trustworthy 
information  that  he  left  the  train  probably  at 
Buffalo,  though  he  may  possibly  have  alighted 
at  Niagara  Falls." 

"What  is  to  be  done  now?"  Laughton 
asked. 

"  We  must  first  ascertain  whether  he  is  still  in 
Buffalo  or  Niagara,  or  whether  he  simply  got  off 
the  train  there  to  throw  us  off  the  track.  I  have 
written  to  the  chief  of  police  at  both  places, 
asking  them  to  look  the  man  up,  and  to  let  me 
know  as  soon  as  they  find  any  trace  of  him." 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  there  now  ? "  White 
inquired 

The  inspector  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then 
answered,  "  No,  I  do  not.  I  am  of  the  impres 
sion  that  his  alighting  there  was  only  a  blind. 
He  may  have  doubled  on  his  tracks,  and  returned 
here,  or  he  may  have  gone  to  Chicago  by  one  of 
the  other  lines  of  railroad.  It  would  be  well  to 
have  Chicago  searched  as  well  as  Buffalo." 

"  I  will  attend  to  that,"  said  Laughton. 

"  And,  of  course,"  continued  the  inspector, 
"  we  have  no  right  to  assume  that  Chicago  was 
really  his  objective  point.  He  may  have  gone 
there,  or  he  may  not." 


NO  NEWS.  207 

"  It  can  do  no  harm  to  have  him  looked  for 
there  as  well  as  in  Buffalo,"  Laughton  declared. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  inspector. 

"  And  he  may  even  have  gone  to  San  Fran 
cisco,"  added  Laughton.  "  I  know  that  he  had 
a  brother  somewhere  in  Southern  California." 

There  was  a  slight  pause  in  the  conversation, 
and  then  Inspector  Barnes  asked  :  "Have  either 
of  you  gentlemen  ever  seen  this  Greek  ?  " 

"  I  have,"  Laughton  answered. 

"  Would  you  recognize  anything  belonging  to 
him  ?  "  the  officer  inquired. 

"  I  might,"  said  Laughton,  doubtfully. 

"  A  ring,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  recall  any  peculiar  ring  of  his," 
Laughton  replied;  "but  perhaps  I  should  if  I 
saw  it" 

"  When  he  quit  the  cars  at  Niagara  or  Buffalo 
he  left  a  ring  behind  him.  It  was  found  by  one 
of  the  men  who  clean  up  the  cars — that's  why  I 
have  been  so  long  in  getting  any  news ;  the  man 
hoped  to  keep  the  ring  for  himself.  But  he  was 
seen  to  pick  it  up  by  another  man,  who  remem 
bered  that  it  had  been  worn  by  a  passenger  on 
the  midnight  train,  very  like  the  Greek  as  you 
have  described  him  to  me.  Besides,  Vollonides 
arrived  here  on  the  City  of  Constantinople,  did  he 
not?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Laughton,  "  only  a  few  hours 
before  Fred  disappeared." 


208  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  I  find  that  it  is  the  custom  of  the  line  to  give 
out  charts  of  the  course  of  the  ship,  on  the  back 
of  which  is  printed  a  list  of  the  passengers.  A 
chart  of  this  sort,  with  a  list  of  the  passengers  on 
the  City  of  Constantinople,  was  found  with  the 
ring.  It  was  rolled  up,  and  the  ring  had  been 
put  on  it,  much  as  a  napkin  ring  is  put  on  a 
napkin." 

"  Have  you  the  ring  ?  "  asked  White. 

"  Here  it  is,"  answered  the  inspector,  taking 
it  from  his  desk. 

Laughton  held  out  his  hand  for  it,  and  as 
soon  as  Inspector  Barnes  laid  the  ring  on  his 
palm,  he  walked  to  the  window  that  he  might 
get  a  good  look  at  it.  Even  by  the  fading  light 
of  a  December  afternoon,  he  knew  the  ring  at 
once. 

"  Do  you  recognize  it  ?  "  asked  the  inspector. 

"  I  do,"  answered  Laughton. 

"  Then  it  belonged  to  the  Greek  ? "  said 
White. 

"  No,"  replied  Laughton,  slowly;  "  it  belongs  to 
the  young  lady  Olyphant  was  engaged  to.  She 
lent  it  to  him  the  last  time  she  saw  him.  I  noticed 
it  on  his  hand  only  a  few  minutes  before  he  dis 
appeared." 

"  It  is  an  opal,"  White  noted. 

"  I  think  you  have  here  another  link  in  the 
chain  which  connects  the  Greek  with  Mr.  Oly- 
phant's  disappearance,"  the  inspector  remarked. 


NO  NEWS.  209 

"  Your  friend  wore  this  ring  at  your  house  on 
the  night  he  was  missing,  and  the  next  day  it  is 
found  on  the  seat  of  the  railroad  car,  where 
Vollonides  had  been  sitting." 

"  It  is  scarcely  possible  to  explain  this  on  any 
other  theory  than  that  Vollonides  took  the  ring 
from  Olyphant,  after  Olyphant  left  Mr.  Ljaughton's 
house,"  White  asserted. 

"  That  is  the  way  I  look  at  it,"  the  inspector 
agreed. 

"  Then  the  first  thing  we  have  to  do  is  to  find 
the  Greek,"  declared  White. 

"And  when  we  get  him,"  added  Laughton, 
with  a  fierceness  foreign  to  his  gentle  manner, 
"  we'll  wring  the  truth  out  of  him,  willy-willy." 

"  It's  like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack 
to  try  and  find  one  man  out  of  the  fifty  millions 
in  these  United  States.  But  we  shall  do  it 
sooner  or  later,"  White  added. 

"  You  may  count  on  my  aid,"  said  Inspector 
Barnes. 

But  even  with  the  aid  of  Inspector  Barnes  they 
did  not  find  Constantine  Vollonides ;  and  they 
did  not  find  Frederick  Olyphant.  Both  men 
had  vanished  and  made  no  sign.  They  had  dis 
appeared  as  completely  as  though  the  earth  had 
opened  and  swallowed  them  up.  Buffalo  was 
scoured  by  the  detectives,  and  Niagara,  but  with 
no  result.  Chicago  was  searched  as  it  had  never 
14 


2 1 o  THE  LAST  MEE  TING. 

been  searched  before,  but  no  trace  of  the  Greek 
was  found.  Laurence  Laughton  had  offered  a 
reward  large  enough  to  stimulate  the  interest  of 
every  detective  in  the  United  States,  but  their 
diligence  and  industry  and  vigilance  were  not 
profitable. 

The  dull  days  followed  one  another  more 
slowly  than  ever,  and  they  brought  no  change. 
There  was  always  the  same  inexplicable  mystery. 
Christmas  came,but  Providence  did  not  vouchsafe 
to  Winifred  Marshall  the  one  Christmas  gift 
which  she  longed  for  with  all  the  passionate 
earnestness  of  her  nature.  New  Year's  day 
followed  Christmas,  and  the  new  year  did  not 
open  any  more  brightly  for  her  than  the  old 
year  had  closed. 

In  January  the  newspapers  exposed  a  gigantic 
scheme  of  blackmailing  which  had  been  planned 
with  extraordinary  astuteness,  and  a  singularly 
acute  knowledge  of  the  weak  side  of  human 
nature.  Certain  developments  in  the  case  led 
Robert  White  to  believe  that  the  scheme  had 
been  in  preparation  for  a  long  while,  and  that  its 
originators  might  have  been  accomplices  in  the 
capture  of  Frederick  Olyphant.  Incredible  as  it 
might  appear,  the  journalist  convinced  himself 
that  the  outlaws  had  considered  the  possibility  of 
adding  to  blackmail  the  profits  of  holding  pris 
oners  to  ransom  ;  in  other  words,  they  were  pre- 


NO  NEWS.  211 

pared  to  transplant  to  the  United  States  in  the  nine 
teenth  century  the  methods  and  practices  of  the 
brigands  of  Greece.  But  it  did  not  take  White 
very  long  to  discover  that  he  was  on  a  false  scent, 
and  that  the  reckless  plotters  whose  elaborate 
devices  for  trading  on  the  weaknesses  of  their 
fellow-men  had  filled  the  newspapers  for  days, 
could  not  have  shared  in  the  abduction  or  the 
murder  of  Frederick  Olyphant.  By  personal 
investigation  he  assured  himself  that  they  had 
no  knowledge  of  Constantine  Vollonides,  and  that 
they  could  tell  him  nothing  about  Olyphant's  fate. 

The  winter  drew  slowly  to  a  close,  but  the 
brightening  skies  brought  no  good  news  to  fulfill 
the  hopes  by  which  Winifred  Marshall  was 
buoyed  up.  Just  before  Lent  began  a  party  of 
her  friends  set  out  for  New  Orleans,  to  see  the 
Mardi  Gras  processions.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Delancey 
Jones,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Sutton,  headed 
the  party,  and  they  asked  Winifred  and  Pussy 
Palmer  to  join  them.  Winifred  refused  at  once. 
She  told  Mrs.  Jones  that  she  did  not  know  when 
Fred  would  return,  but  it  was  her  duty  to  remain 
in  New  York  that  he  might  find  her  at  once  when 
he  sought  her.  Pussy  Palmer  was  very  anxious 
to  go ;  she  said  she  thought  it  would  be  "  dead 
loads  of  fun " ;  she  tried  to  persuade  Winifred 
to  change  her  mind :  but  when  she  found  that 
her  friend  was  fixed  in  the  determination  to 


2 1 2  THE  LAST  MEE  TING. 

remain  in  New  York,  she  magnanimously  re 
mained  also,  knowing  that  Winifred  relied  on  her 
companionship. 

As  it  happened,  Miss  Pussy  Palmer  had  her 
reward  in  this  world.  Schermerhorn  Van  Siclen 
and  his  family  were  hugely  delighted  with  the 
success  of  their  great  ball,  and  they  were  moved 
to  astonish  society  again.  Young  Mrs.  Van  Siclen, 
the  bride,  formerly  Miss  Miranda  Hitchcock,  was 
a  young  lady  of  fertile  invention,  and  she  sug 
gested  a  fish-dinner  for  the  first  week  in  Lent. 
Mr.  Van  Siclen's  father  had  been  a  Long  Island 
fisherman,  a  fact  to  which  he  sometimes  referred, 
much  to  his  wife's  disgust ;  and  he  accepted  the 
fish-dinner  as  highly  appropriate.  He  deter 
mined  also  that  as  the  Van  Siclen  ball  had  been 
the  great  ball  of  the  season,  so  the  Van  Siclen 
fish-dinner  should  deserve  and  demand  record 
in  the  annals  of  the  highest  gastronomy.  The 
ingenuity  of  the  Van  Siclens  and  of  their  pro 
fessional  advisers  was  tasked  to  the  utmost  to 
furnish  variety.  In  the  centre  of  the  table  was  a 
huge  block  of  ice,  frozen  in  which,  as  though 
swimming,  was  a  little  school  of  sea-robins,  whose 
variegated  colors  were  illumined  by  half  a 
dozen  tiny  electric  lamps,  also  frozen  into  the 
block  of  ice.  Other  of  these  little  lamps  were  con 
cealed  here  and  there  amid  the  flowers  on  the  table. 
The  oysters  on  the  half  shell  reposed  on  thin 
disks  of  ice.  There  was  a  clam-soup  and 


NO  NEWS.  213 

there  was  a  bisque  of  crabs  which  surpassed 
description.  There  was  terrapin  which  pleased 
even  the  old  bachelors.  There  was  pompano, 
and  there  was  every  other  fish  which  could  be 
procured  for  love  of  money.  The  ice-creams 
simulated  the  humble  -  red-herring ;  and  the 
finger  bowls  had  tiny  gold-fish  swimming 
about  in  them.  These  were  joys  which  Pussy 
Palmer  would  have  lost  had  she  gone  to  New 
Orleans  for  Mardi  Gras;  and  as  she  was  amused 
by  the  successive  courses  with  their  surprises,  she 
was  very  glad  that  she  had  remained  in  New 
York. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley,  who  had  taken  her  into  dinner, 
"  it  pays  to  be  self-sacrificing.  Virtue  is  its  own 
reward,  and  honesty  is  the  best  policy." 

"  C'est  vrai"  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  re 
plied.  "  Who  ever  would  have  thought  you  had 
so  many  kinds  of  fish  here?  I've  seen  more 
fish  here  to-day  than  I  ever  saw  in  London,  you 
know ;  and  yet  we  Britishers  live  on  an  island, 
and  we  ought  to  have  no  end  of  fish." 

The  gossip  must  be  recorded  here  which 
asserts  that  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  had  been 
very  attentive  to  Miss  Pussy  Palmer  all  winter. 
Charley  Sutton  had  seen  them  together,  and  he 
had  remarked  that  it  looked  as  though  "  Hob- 
Chum  was  beginning  to  take  notice." 

Mrs.  Martin,  who  had  long  before  this  discov- 


214 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


ered  the  good  qualities  concealed  beneath  the 
young  girl's  extravagance  of  speech,  had 
resolved  that  she  should  marry  the  little  English 
man  ;  and  it  was  generally  believed  that  the 
Duchess  of  Washington  Square  was  a  special 
partner  with  heaven  in  the  business  of  match 
making — to  use  a  phrase  of  Dear  Jones's.  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley  had  been  heard  to  de 
clare  that  he  had  had  enough  of  globe-trotting, 
and  that  he  meant  to  get  a  wife  and  settle  down. 
"  Better  get  one  with  money,"  suggested  Charley 
Sutton,  "  and  then  you  can  settle  up."  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley  flushed  scarlet :  "  I  don't 
owe  you  anything,  do  I  ?  "  he  asked,  uncomfort 
ably  ;  that  he  was  sometimes  impervious  to  a 
joke  was  the  chief  defect  of  his  character.  "  You 
don't  owe  me  anything  but  respect,"  answered 
Charley  Sutton ;  "  and  I'll  lend  you  a  piece  of 
advice.  If  you  want  to  get  married,  hang  out  a 
sign,  '  Eligible  Bachelor  For  Sale,'  and  maybe 
some  pretty  girl  will  run  away  with  you." 
"  That's  not  half  bad,  that  idea,"  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley  had  said ;  "  but  do  you  think  it 
would  be  good  form  ?  " 

Pussy  Palmer  confessed  to  herself  that  she 
was  very  fond  of  the  little  Englishman,  and  she 
looked  favorably  on  his  timid  suit.  People  said 
she  flirted  with  him  outrageously,  but  Mr.  Hob 
son-Cholmondeley  had  not  complained.  Any  one 
who  watched  them,  as  they  sat  side  by  side  at 


NO  NEWS. 


215 


the  Van  Sicl'en  fish-dinner,  would  have  ventured 
a  guess  that  they  were  interested  in  each  other. 
Miss  Pussy  had  allowed  her  rich  auburn 
hair  to  grow  into  the  most  enchanting  little  curls, 
and  she  had  arranged  it  with  consummate  art  to 
set  off  her  radiant  complexion,  which  was  "  as 
clear  as  a  spring  morning  after  a  heavy  dew  "  : 
so  Rudolph  Vernon  had  once  described  it. 

"  I'm  getting  old,"  she  said  ;  "  I'm  losing  all 
my  illusions,  and  my  dolly  is  stuffed  with  sawdust." 

"  Tiens,  tiens"  chirped  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon- 
deley,  making  a  mental  record  of  the  curious 
fact  that  in  America  young  ladies  out  in  society 
still  played  with  dolls. 

"  I  used  to  think  once,"  Pussy  continued, 
"  that  I  might  have  what  I  wanted  the  next  day, 
now  I  don't  expect  it  till  next  week,  and  I  don't 
always  get  it  even  then." 

"  What  ever  do  you  want  that  you  do  not 
have?"  asked  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley. 

"  Oh,  lots  of  things.  I  wanted  to  go  to  New 
Orleans,  but  I'm  glad  I  didn't  go,  now.  I 
wanted  to  get  out  of  teaching  a  class  in  Sunday- 
school.  I  want,  most  of  all  perhaps,  to  learn  to 
control  my  temper ;  why,  yesterday  at  lunch,  I 
got  so  mad  with  myself,  that  I  should  have 
talked  scripture,  if  there  hadn't  been  ladies 
present." 

"Oh,  indeed?"  said  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon 
deley,  meditatively. 


2 1 6  THE  LAST  MEE  TING. 

"  Of  course,"  she  went  on,  "  the  one  thing  I'd 
give  anything  to  see,  is  to  see  Fred  Olyphant 
come  back." 

"  But  you  never  will  see  that,  you  know,"  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley  declared. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  asked,  fiercely. 

"  Because  he  is  dead,"  was  the  Englishman's 
answer. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  He  walked  out  of  the  little 
door  in  Mr.  Laughton's  library,  the  one  covered 
by  a  curtain,  you  know,  and  he  walked  right  to 
the  Battery  and  was  drowned." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  I  know  he's  alive  !  "  cried 
Pussy,  indignantly ;  "  and  I  don't  see  how  you 
can  say  such  things  either." 

"Je dis ce  que  je pense"  responded  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley,  a  little  taken  aback  by  this  out 
burst. 

"  Then  you  had  better  think  about  something 
else,"  returned  the  American  girl. 

"  But  they  found  his  body,"  persisted  the 
Englishman,  not  knowing  when  to  stop. 

"  They  didn't  do  anything  of  the  sort — so,  here 
now !  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  brow-beat  me  in 
this  way,"  the  young  lady  declared,  with  emphasis. 
"  Frederick  Olyphant  is  alive,  and  he  will  come 
back  some  day." 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  said  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon 
deley,  when  he  had  far  better  have  said  nothing. 


NO  NEWS. 


217 


"  But  I  tell  you  he  will !  "  she  rejoined ;  "  and 
I'll  make  you  think  so,  too." 

"  You  can't  do  that,  Miss  Pussy,"  he  said,  with 
a  smile;  "really, you  know,  you  can't  do  that." 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to  talk  to  me,  I'll  make  you 
wish  for  his  return,  for  I  forbid  you  ever  to  speak 
to  me  again  until  Frederick  Olyphant  comes 
back  !  "  And  she  said  this  defiantly  and  firmly  ; 
and  the  Englishman  thought  he  had  never  seen 
her  looking  as  lively  and  as  pretty. 

"  Come,  now,  Miss  Pussy,"  he  began,  "  it's 
really  too  bad  you  know — " 

"  That's  enough,"  she  said,  rising  from  the 
table  with  the  other  ladies ;  "  you  have  heard  the 
sentence  of  the  court.  Until  Frederick  Olyphant 
comes  back  I  will  not  listen  to  you." 

Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  rubbed  his  hands 
together  gently  as  he  saw  Miss  Palmer  retreat 
from  the  dining-room.  But  despite  his  utmost 
effort  and  his  most  effective  special  pleading  he 
was  unable  to  get  his  fair  judge  to  reverse  her 
decision. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

GLAD   TIDINGS. 

rPHE  fish-dinner  of  the  Van  Siclenswas  the  chief 
JL  topic  of  talk  in  the  town  until  the  time  drew 
nigh  for  the  inauguration  of  the  new  President  of 
the  United  States,  who  had  been  elected  four  days 
after  Olyphant's  disappearance.  The  enterprising 
newspapers  which  had  spread  before  their  hun 
dred  thousand  readers  the  full  bill-of-fare  of  that 
Lenten  repast,  with  an  illustrative  diagram  of  the 
dinner-table,  placing  the  guests  accurately,  and 
giving  a  picturesque  estimate  of  their  fortunes, 
individual  and  collective,  were  adequate  to  the 
new  occasion,  and  kindly  provided  the  future 
President  with  ready-made  Cabinets  recon 
structed  daily.  After  the  inauguration,  the  new 
President  appointed  his  own  Cabinet,  and  the 
newspapers  devoted  themselves  to  chronicling  the 
small-talk  of  the  inauguration-ball.  The  month 
of  March  went  out  like  a  lamb,  exposing  its 
fleece  of  snow  until  its  last  day,  and  then  April 
came  foolishly  forward  ;  but  the  revolving  months 
left  those  who  loved  Frederick  Olyphant  in  the 
218 


GLAD  TIDINGS.  219 

same  gnawing  uncertainty.  He  had  been  gone 
for  five  months,  and  nothing  definite  had  been 
discovered  in  regard  to  his  disappearance, — 
nothing,  that  is  to  say,  more  definite  or  more 
precise  than  the  facts  which  have  been  set  down 
in  the  preceding  pages. 

Winifred  Marshall's  faith  in  her  lover  and  in 
his  life  did  not  flag  or  falter ;  but  hope  deferred 
made  her  heart  sick.  The  good  news  was  a  long 
time  coming.  She  did  not  doubt,  still  less  did 
she  despair,  but  a  vague  dread  began  to  steal 
over  her,  and  now  and  again  her  strength  failed 
her.  She  was  strong  of  will,  and  she  nerved 
herself  to  conquer  a  weakness  which  was  almost 
wholly  physical.  Yet  the  struggle  told  upon  her, 
and  the  strain  was  as  much  as  she  could  stand. 
Pussy  Palmer  was  with  her  friend  every  day,  but 
she  could  not  deny  that  Winifred  had  begun  to 
droop  and  to  decline.  Pussy  feared,  so  she  con 
fessed  to  Uncle  Larry,  that  if  relief  did  not  come 
soon,  Winifred  would  fade  away,  and  that  when 
Fred  did  return  at  last,  he  would  not  find  his 
bride.  Laurence  Laughton  saw  that  Winifred 
looked  wearied  and  worn.  She  kept  a  brave 
heart,  and  her  beauty  grew  in  pathos ;  but  her 
body  was  ready  to  break  down.  She  had  always 
had  High  Church  ideas,  and  the  fasting  she  im 
posed  on  herself  in  Lent  was  more  than  she  could 
bear.  He  remonstrated  with  her  in  vain,  until 
he  told  her  that  she  had  no  right  to  risk  her 


22O  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

health,  since  Fred  would  not  be  pleased  if  he 
came  back  and  found  her  weak  and  waning. 
She  felt  the  force  of  this  argument,  and  a  few 
days  afterward  Laurence  noted  with  pleasure  that 
her  walk  was  firmer,  and  that  there  was  a  fresher 
color  in  her  cheek.  She  and  Pussy  took  long 
rides  in  the  Park  every  morning,  regardless  of  the 
inclemencies  of  the  climate.  When  Easter  came, 
Laughton  looked  across  the  church,  and  he 
thought  she  seemed  encouraged  and  refreshed, 
as  though  she  had  obtained  some  spiritual  com 
fort  unknown  to  him.  He  could  not  take  his 
eyes  off  her  during  the  long  service,  and  when  he 
left  the  church  the  dull  pain  at  his  heart  hurt 
more  than  ever  before. 

The  Full  Score  was  to  have  its  Spring  dinner 
at  Laurence  Laughton's  on  the  Friday  after 
Easter,  April  loth,  more  than  five  months  since 
the  previous  meeting,  at  which  Frederick  Oly- 
phant  had  made  his  last  appearance. 

In  Uncle  Larry's  dining-room  there  gathered 
Poor  Bob  White  and  the  poetic  Rudolph  Vernon, 
Charley  Sutton  and  Eliphalet  Duncan,  Mr.  J. 
Warren  Payn,  the  composer,  and  Hobson-Chol- 
mondeley,  who  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  getting 
speech  again  with  Miss  Pussy  Palmer.  Harry 
Brackett,  who  had  arrived  late  at  the  previous 
meeting,  and  Dear  Jones,  who  had  not  been 
there  at  all,  were  also  among  the  guests. 

Harry  Brackett  liked  Dear  Jones,  and  he  was 


GLAD  TIDINGS.  221 

greatly  given  to  the  humorous  banter  of  those  he 
liked. 

"  I  am  told,"  he  was  heard  to  say  during  a 
break  in  the  conversation,  "  that  Jonesy  is  an 
architect  now — not  that  I  have  ever  seen  any 
thing  he  has  built." 

"  That's  because  I  haven't  built  a  jail  yet," 
retorted  Dear  Jones. 

"  Speaking  of  jails,"  Brackett  continued,  im- 
perturbably,  "  reminds  me  of  what  I  have  also 
been  informed,  and  that  is,  that  Jonesy  studied 
music  and  wrote  songs  and  such  before  he  took 
to  building  Eastlake  pig-pens." 

"  Somebody  once  said,"  Rudolph  Vernon 
remarked,  "  that  architecture  was  frozen  music." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  suggest  that  Jones's  opera 
would-  have  been  a  '  frost '  ?  "  asked  Charley 
Sutton. 

Dear  Jones  came  forward  in  self-defence.  "  I 
never  wrote  an  opera,"  he  explained, "though  I  did 
once  begin  an  oratorio  on  the  subject  of 'Jezebel ' ; 
but  I  did  not  advance  beyond  the  composition 
of  a  Chorus  of  Barking  Dogs." 

"  It's  lucky  you  didn't  go  any  further," 
returned  Harry  Brackett ;  "  barking  dogs  don't 
bite — and  musical  critics  do  !  " 

"  Are  not  all  critics  dogs  ?  "  asked  Rudolph 
Vernon,  humorously  exaggerating  a  poet's  pro 
per  contempt  for  cynicism. 

"  I  will   not  allow  the  critics  to  be  abused," 


222  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

Jones  declared ;  "  did  not  one  of  them  say  only 
the  other  day  that  a  Queen  Anne  cottage  of 
mine  reminded  him  of  the  Parthenon  ?  It  was 
either  the  Parthenon  or  St.  Peter's,  I  forget  which." 

"  The  praise  of  a  fool  is  bitter,"  said  the  poet, 
sententiously. 

"  But  who  ever  believed  that  the  man  who 
praised  him  could  be  a  fool  ?  "  Dear  Jones 
inquired.  "  I  don't.  The  man  who  praises 
me  is  a  person  of  remarkable  discernment, 
and  of  the  highest  intellectual  attributes." 

"  Of  course,"  assented  Eliphalet  Duncan. 

"  I  have  known  critics,"  said  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley,  judicially,  "  who  were  tant  soit 
pen  commonplace  persons." 

"  Well,  I  should  say  so,"  Robert  White  re 
sponded  ;  "  some  critics  don't  know  enough  to 
keep  over  night.  Why,  when  I  wrote  a  satirical 
paper  for  the  Arctic  Monthly,  which  I  called  '  An 
Inquiry  into  the  Alleged  Collaboration  of  Ba 
con  and  Shakspere  in  writing  Punch-and-Judy,' 
a  man  in  an  up-country  newspaper  called  me  to 
account  gravely  for  the  insubstantiality  of  my 
argument — just  as  if  I  could  provide  not  only 
the  merry  jest  but  also  the  sense  of  humor  for 
its  proper  enjoyment." 

"  I  remember  a  man  down-east  or  out-west,  I 
forget  which,"  said  Dear  Jones,  "  who  com 
plained  of  the  insubstantiality  of  Fred  Oly- 
phant's  '  Vision  of  No-Man's  Land. ' ' 


GLAD  TIDINGS, 


223 


"  Fancy  now,"  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  re 
marked.  "  It's  something  curious  to  think  that 
poor  Olyphant  was  at  work  on  a  picture  called 
the  '  Sharpness  of  Death,'  when  he  died  himself." 

"  If  he  really  is  dead  ?  "  said  White,  gravely. 

"  Dear  me,"  asked  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon 
deley  ;  "  do  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

"  Most  decidedly  I  doubt  it,"  answered  White. 

"  So  do  I,"  added  Laughton. 

"  Really  now,"  the  little  Englishman  rejoined, 
"  I  wish  I  could.  His  death  was  most  unfortu 
nate,  for  he  was  a  good  fellow,  you  know, 
jusqu'au  bout  des  angles.  But  I  haven't  any 
doubt  that  he  walked  out  of  that  door  in  the 
library,  and  went  down  to  the  Battery,  and  was 
drowned." 

"  But  that  was  not  his  body  we  found,"  said 
Harry  Brackett. 

"  And  he  did  not  go  out  of  that  door  in  the 
library,"  Laughton  declared,  "for  it  was  locked." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that,  Uncle  Larry  ?" 
asked  Robert  White. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Laughton ;  "  we 
found  it  locked,  you  remember,  and  the  key  was 
on  my  table  up  stairs." 

"  But  let  us  apply  what  the  logicians  call  the 
process  of  exclusion,"  persisted  White.  "  Fred 
was  in  this  house  on  the  night  of  October  3ist; 
he  was  on  this  floor,  in  one  of  these  three  rooms, 
parlor,  library,  dining-room.  Now,  he  must 


224  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

have  got  out  by  an  opening  of  some  sort.  The 
only  openings  are  the  chimneys,  windows  and 
doors.  The  chimneys  are  too  small  for  human 
egress.  The  windows  could  not  have  been 
opened  without  our  knowledge ;  it  is  simply  im 
possible  that  Fred  could  have  gone  into  either 
the  parlor  or  the  dining-room  and  opened  a 
window  and  got  out,  without  being  seen  by  the 
men  in  those  rooms.  Therefore,  he  must  have 
made  his  exit  by  one  of  the  doors.  Now,  there 
are  three  doors  and  three  only — one  in  the  par 
lor,  one  in  the  dining-room  here,  and  the  little 
one  behind  the  curtain  in  the  library.  The  door 
in  the  parlor  is  easily  disposed  of — it  was  closed, 
and  I  was  leaning  against  it :  therefore  I  know 
that  Fred  did  not  go  out  that  way." 

"  And  I  know  he  did  not  go  out  by  the  door 
in  this  room,"  interrupted  Charley  Sutton,  "  for 
I  was  sitting  just  in  front  of  it,  with  my  feet  up 
on  a  chair,  and  nobody  could  have  passed  with 
out  disturbing  me." 

"  The  door  was  shut  tight,"  added  Rudolph 
Vernon,  "  for  I  remember  what  a  rattle  it  made 
as  I  slid  it  to." 

"  Therefore,"  declared  White,  "  as  Fred  could 
not  have  gone  up  the  chimney  or  out  of  the 
window,  and  as  he  did  not  go  out  of  the  door 
here  in  the  dining-room,  or  out  of  that  in  the 
parlor,  he  must  have  gone  out  of  the  little  door 
in  the  library.  Q.  E.  D." 


GLAD  TIDINGS. 


22$ 


"  That's  what  I  said  directly  I  heard  he  was 
gone,"  said  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley,  rubbing 
his  hands  together  gently. 

"But  that  little  door  was  locked,"  Laughton 
replied. 

"  It  was  locked  when  you  tried  it ;  yes.  But 
was  it  locked  earlier  in  the  evening  ?  "  asked 
White.  "  And  when  had  it  been  unlocked  last 
before  that  night." 

"  I  have  a  vague  recollection,"  answered 
Laurence,  "  that  it  had  been  open  two  or  three 
days  before,  during  the  cleaning  of  the  house.  I 
told  the  faithful  Bridget,  I  remember,  to  lock  it 
up  again,  when  the  cleaning  was  over,  and  to 
take  the  key  up  to  my  room.  And  she  must 
have  done  it,  because  we  found  the  door  locked 
and  we  found  the  key  up  stairs." 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  White  returned  ;  "  but 
it  is  just  as  easy  to  say  that  Fred  must  have 
gone  through  this  door,  for  he  could  not  have 
got  out  any  other  way;  and  that  he  did  get  out 
somehow  we  all  know,  because  the  watch  he 
wore  and  the  ring  he  had  on,  have  been  found 
elsewhere.  The  door  had  been  open,  as  you 
confess :  now,  why  not  let  us  ask  the  faithful 
Bridget  when  she  locked  it  ?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  "per 
haps  you  might  have  her  up.  I  don't  suppose 
she  will  remember,  but  it  won't  do  any  harm  to 
ask  her,  and  I  think  she  likes  to  come  up  when 
15 


226  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

there's  company."  He  told  one  of  the  waiters 
to  request  the  faithful  Bridget  to  step  up  stairs. 

"You  conduct  the  examination- in-chief,"  said 
Charley  Sutton  to  White,  "  and  I'll  cross-examine 
for  the  defence." 

"  Unless  you  want  every  cross-question  to 
bring  a  crosser  answer,"  Uncle  Larry  ventured 
to  remark,  "  perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  let  me 
extract  the  information." 

"  I  object,"  Charley  Sutton  began. 

"  Of  course,"  interposed  Eliphalet  Duncan ; 
but  the  court  overrules  the  objection,  and  allows 
the  exception." 

A  pleasant  old  Irish  voice  was  heard  on  the 
stairs  leading  up  from  below  calling,  "  Come 
here,  sir,  come  here  !  Bundle  o'  Rags  !  Bundle 
o'  Rags  !  Oh,  the  little  wretch,  there's  no  holding 
him !  "  and  Bundle  o'  Rags  bounded  into  the 
dining-room  at  full  speed,  stopping  short  by 
the  side  of  Uncle  Larry,  where  he  threw  him 
self  back  on  his  haunches  and  began  to  beg  at 
once. 

"  Sure,  there's  no  holding  him,  sir,  none  at 
all.  Do  what  I  will,  he's  out  of  my  hands  before 
I  know  where  I  am,"  said  the  faithful  Bridget,  as 
she  entered  the  dining-room,  and  came  to  the 
head  of  the  table.  "  Good  evening,  gentlemen," 
she  added,  as  she  saw  the  assembly. 

"  How  are  you,  Bridget?  "  was  shouted  at  her 
from  all  parts  of  the  table. 


GLAD  TIDINGS. 


227 


"  It's  well  I  am,  barring  a  taste  of  the  rheuma 
tics  in  my  feet." 

As  Uncle  Larry  gave  Bundle  o'  Rags  the  bone 
for  which  he  had  been  mutely  pleading  since 
his  sudden  appearance,  he  noticed  that  one  of 
the  dog's  eyes  was  abnormally  free  from  the 
shaggy  hair  which  generally  begirt  it.  "  What  is 
the  matter  with  his  left  eye,  Bridget  ?"  he  asked. 

"Sure,  I  don't  rightly  know,  sir;  I  think  it's 
that  Cleopatrick,  sir,  the  kitten.  They're  so 
playful  together  there's  no  keeping  them  apart. 
I  think  when  she  combed  his  bang  the  morning, 
she  stuck  her  finger  in  his  eye.  But  she's  a 
good  kitten,  is  that  Cleopatrick,  sir;  there's  no 
harm  in  her." 

"  Bridget,"  Laughton  began,  "  do  you  remem 
ber  when  that  little  door  in  the  library  was  open, 
the  one  behind  the  curtain,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Sure  I  do,  sir,"  she  answered,  promptly;  "we'd 
been  after  cleaning  the  house,  and  I  had  the  key 
down  and  I  opened  it." 

"  Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  to  lock 
it  up  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do,  sir.  And  by  the  same  token  I 
forgot  it.  As  you  know,  sir,  it  isn't  often  I  for 
get  my  duty,  but  I  clean  forgot  that,  so  I  did." 

Robert  White  looked  at  Laughton  with  a  smile 
of  triumph,  as  the  host  asked,  "  Well,  when  did 
you  lock  the  door,  Bridget  ?  " 

"  It  was  for  two  days  I  forgot  it,  sir  ;   but  'twas 


228  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

no  wonder,  sir.  I  was  flustered  with  getting  the 
house  ready  for  the  dinner.  Sure,  'twas  then  you 
had  all  these  gentlemen  to  dinner." 

"And  that  was  two  days  after  I  had  told  you 
to  lock  the  door?"  Laughton  inquired. 

"  Sure  it  was,  sir,  and  'twas  the  night  of  the 
dinner  I  locked  it.  I  was  going  up  to  bed,  and 
as  I  passed  the  hall  here,  the  door  was  open  and 
then  I  minded  me,  I  had  to  lock  it,  and  I  turned 
the  key  then,  and  I  took  it  up  to  your  room,  sir." 

"  You  say  you  found  the  door  open  as  you 
passed  ?  "  asked  Laughton. 

"  Indeed  it  was,  sir,  all  along  of  my  not  having 
locked  it  before.  'Twas  open  half-way  across  the 
hall,  as  though  somebody  had  been  through  it, 
though  it  was  shut  in  the  morning,  that  I'm 
sure." 

"  And  what  time  was  it  when  you  went  to  bed 
that  night  ?  " 

"'Twas  my  regular  time,  ten  or  the  half  after," 
replied  the  faithful  Bridget. 

"  That  will  do,  Bridget,"  said  Uncle  Larry ; 
"  thank  you.  You  can  take  Bundle  o'  Rags  down 
with  you." 

But  Bundle  o'  Rags  heard  this,  and  he  seized 
his  bone  in  his  teeth  and  he  fled  into  the  parlor, 
where  he  hid  himself  under  the  furthermost 
corner  of  a  sofa.  The  faithful  Bridget  pursued 
him  swiftly,  but  he  resisted  her  blandishments 
and  refused  to  come  forth. 


GLAD  TIDINGS. 


229 


"  You  may  let  him  stay  up,"  Laurence  called 
to  her.  "  I'll  attend  to  his  case." 

"  Very  well,  sir,  if  you  say  so,"  and  the  faithful 
Bridget  withdrew. 

"  It  is  always  mean  to  say,  '  I  told  you  so,'  but 
I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  just  this  once,"  said 
White  to  Laughton. 

"  Dixi!"  remarked  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley, 
"je  vous  I'ai  dit!  " 

Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley  was  a  kindly,  good- 
hearted  little  fellow,  but  as  Charley  Button  put 
it,  "  he  is  as  obstinate  as  they  make  'em  ;  and  he 
has  no  more  tact  than  a  hedgehog." 

"  I  think  it  is  plain  enough  now  how  Fred  got 
out  of  the  room,"  White  declared  ;  "  he  walked 
out  through  the  little  door  in  the  library,  leaving 
it  ajar.  The  curtain  concealed  this  fact  from 
Uncle  Larry.  Fred  took  his  hat  and  left  the 
house.  Then,  while  Uncle  Larry  was  looking  for 
him  in  the  parlor  and  in  the  dining-room,  Bridget 
came  up  to  go  to  bed.  She  saw  the  library  door 
open,  she  locked  it  and  she  took  the  key  up 
stairs  to  Uncle  Larry's  room." 

"  I  have  always  said,"  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon 
deley  declared,  "  that  poor  Olyphant  walked  out 
through  that  little  door,  and  that  he  went  down 
to  the  Battery  and  that  he  is  drowned." 

"  And  I  say  he  isn't  drowned,"  Robert  White 
retorted;  "  I  believe  he  is  alive." 

"  Then  where  is  he  ?  "  asked  the  Englishman. 


230 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


11 1  don't  know." 

"  And  why  doesn't  he  turn  up?  "  persisted  the 
obstinate  little  fellow. 

"  I  don't  know,"  White  answered.  "  But  I 
think  he  is  alive,  and  I  think  he  will  surely  turn 
up." 

"  So  do  I,"  Laughton  agreed. 

"  But  there's  no  common-sense  in  believing  in 
a  thing  contrary  to  the  facts,"  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley  urged. 

"  Here  are  the  facts,"  rejoined  White,  "  and 
here  is  my  interpretation  of  them  :  Fred  had  no 
reason  to  go  away  and  hide  ;  indeed,  he  had  the 
best  of  reasons  for  staying  here.  Therefore  we 
may  assume  that  his  absence  or  disappearance 
is  not  voluntary.  He  was  known  to  have  a 
bitter  enemy  who  had  a  hereditary  passion  for 
revenge.  We  know  this  enemy  arrived  in  New 
York  a  few  hours  before  Fred  vanished.  There 
fore  we  may  believe  that  this  enemy  was  the 
cause  of  Fred's  disappearance." 

"Do  you  think  Vollonides  killed  Fred?" 
asked  Charley  Sutton. 

"  No,  I  do  not  think  so  now.  If  he  had  killed 
him  he  would  not  have  left  Fred's  ring  lying 
about  in  a  car ;  he  was  too  sharp  for  that.  Be 
side,  he  was  a  quick-witted  Greek,  and  he  was 
wily  enough  and  cruel  enough  to  know  that 
instant  death  is  not  the  worst  of  fates.  To  live 
and  to  suffer  and  to  know  that  those  we  love  are 


GLAD  TIDINGS. 


231 


suffering,  is  worse  than  death,  many  degrees 
worse.  Now,  on  the  boat  which  brought  him 
here,  Vollonides  picked  up  a  bit  of  information 
about  Fred  and — " 

"  And  the  man  who  gave  him  that  information 
has  been  kicking  himself  for  a  fool  ever  since," 
interrupted  Jones. 

"  Quite  right  too,"  commented  Harry  Brackett 

"  This  information,"  White  continued,  "  may 
have  made  him  change  his  mind.  No  doubt  he 
had  come  here  to  kill  Fred.  Instead  of  killing 
him  he  preferred  to  secrete  him  somewhere,  to 
spirit  him  away,  leaving  doubt  and  dismay  be 
hind,  and  causing  many  times  as  much  misery 
as  a  certainty  of  death." 

"  But  what  has  he  done  with  him  ? "  asked 
Jones ;  "  I'm  told  that  the  Bastille  is  now  out  of 
repair." 

"  And  the  press-gang  has  lost  its  power," 
added  Eliphalet  Duncan. 

"  Twenty  years  ago,"  Charley  Sutton  remarked, 
"  we  might  have  thought  he  had  been  shanghaied." 

"  Shang-what  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon- 
deley. 

"  Shanghaied — that  is,  drugged  and  shipped  as 
a  sailor  on  a  vessel  bound  for  Shanghai  or  any 
other  long  voyage." 

"  Dear  me,"  ejaculated  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon- 
deley,  "  that's  something  dreadful.  Do  they  do 
it  now  ?  " 


232 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"  I  haven't  heard  of  a  case  for  years  now," 
Charley  Sutton  answered.  "  But  once  upon  a 
time  New  York  was  a  famous  port  for  Shang- 
haiers.  And  a  poor  devil  who  was  shanghaied 
was  wiped  out  as  completely  for  the  time  being 
as  though  he  had  been  pressed  in  England  or 
sent  to  the  Bastille  in  France." 

"  C'est  curieux"  said  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmon- 
deley,  meditatively.  Then,  turning  to  Robert 
White,  he  asked,  aggressively,  "  So  you  think 
poor  Olyphant  has  been  shanghaied  ?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that,"  White  replied ;  "  I  have  no 
idea  what  Vollonides  has  done  to  him.  But  I  do 
not  believe  that  the  Greek  has  killed  him,  since 
he  knew  that  doubt  as  to  his  fate  would  be 
more  cruel  than  death." 

"  I  never  went  in  for  subtlety,"  said  Mr. 
Hobson-Cholmondeley,  with  dogged  determina 
tion  ;  "  and  what  I  said  I  stick  to.  I  say  poor 
Olyphant  went  out  of  that  little  door  in  the 
library,  and  that  he  went  down  to  the  Battery 
and  was  drowned  in  the  Bay." 

"  And  I  say  that  I  think  he  is  alive,"  retorted 
White. 

"  There  are  mysteries,"  intervened  Rudolph 
Vernon,  "  that  no  man  has  ever  solved.  We  do 
not  know  the  name  of  the  man  who  wore  the 
Iron  Mask — " 

"  And  nobody  knows  who  struck  Billy  Patter 
son,"  Charley  Sutton  remarked,  casually. 


GLAD  TIDINGS. 


233 


"  And  it  may  be,"  continued  the  poet,  disre 
garding  the  young  Californian's  interruption, 
"  that  the  mystery  of  Fred's  disappearance  may 
also  remain  unsolved  and  insoluble." 

"  It  would  not  surprise  me  if  the  bell  were  to 
ring  at  any  moment,  and  if  Fred  walked  right  in 
on  us  now  and  here,"  said  Laughton,  who  had 
been  listening  silently. 

As  if  in  answer  to  his  words,  there  came  a 
sharp  ring  at  the  door-bell.  A  sudden  hush  fell 
upon  the  little  group  of  Olyphant's  friends. 
There  was  a  minute  of  anxious  expectation,  and 
then  the  door  opened  and  the  faithful  Bridget 
entered  with  a  telegram-envelope  in  her  hand. 

"  It's  a  false  alarm,"  said  Charley  Sutton,  with 
a  sigh.  "  I  wish  it  wasn't,"  and  the  conversation 
sprang  up  again  as  Laurence  Laughton  took  the 
envelope,  and,  after  a  hasty  apology,  tore  it  open. 
He  read  the  telegram  in  silence,  and  drew  a  long 
breath.  Then,  without  a  word  he  passed  it  to 
Robert  White.  The  journalist  glanced  at  it  and 
sprang  to  his  feet.  He  was  younger  than 
Laughton  and  he  had  less  self-control. 

"Is  there  news  ?  "  asked  Charley  Sutton. 

"  From  Fred?  "  added  Duncan,  who  was  quick 
to  read  a  face. 

"  Yes,"  answered  White.  "  He's  alive  !  and 
he  will  be  here  in  a  week  !  " 

The  Full  Score  arose  as  one  man  and  gave  a 
ringing  cheer. 


234 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


The  telegram  was  from  Frederick  Olyphant 
in  San  Francisco.  This  is  what  it  said  : — 

"  All  right.  Shall  leave  here  for  New  York 
on  first  train.  Break  the  news  to  her." 


CHAPTER-  XV. 

THE    LAST    MEETING. 

"FREDERICK   OLYPHANTS  story— the 

JT  story  of  his  strange  disappearance,  of  his 
peculiar  adventures,  of  his  existence  during  the 
five  months  and  more  that  he  was  missing,  of 
the  awful  fate  which  was  prepared  for  him  by 
the  devilish  malignity  of  his  enemy,  of  his 
escape  from  the  plot  laid  against  him,  and  of  his 
last  meeting  with  Constantine  Vollonides — can 
best  be  told  in  this  place  and  in  his  own  words, 
as  he  set  it  down  at  the  loving  request  of  Wini 
fred  Marshall,  who  wished  to  have  an  exact 
record  of  the  things  which  befell  her  lover  while 
he  was  away  from  her. 

On  the  evening  of  the  last  day  of  October, 
1884, — so  his  narrative  began — I  went  to  a  din 
ner  of  The  Full  Score  at  Laughton's.  After 
dinner  we  broke  up  into  little  groups.  Some  of 
the  men  remained  in  the  dining-room,  smoking 
over  their  coffee.  Others  went  into  the  parlor 
and  stood  about  the  piano,  while  some  one 
played.  Uncle  Larry  and  I  were  alone  in  the 
library.  I  wrote  you  a  letter  and  I  gave  it  to 

235 


236 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


Bridget  to  post.  I  had  been  feeling  miserable 
ever  since  I  parted  from  you — and  it  was  no 
wonder.  After  I  had  written  the  letter,  my 
spirits  revived  a  little,  though  I  was  dull  and 
jaded.  Larry  told  me  that  I  had  been  work 
ing  too  hard,  and  that  I  ought  to  rest.  I 
recall  every  word  of  the  talk  we  had — how  I 
gave  vent  to  the  discouragement  which  had 
possessed  me,  and  how  he  tried  to  put  heart 
into  me  with  the  manly  kindness  I  have  always 
found  in  him.  For  once  I  took  no  comfort  in 
his  counsel.  I  knew  he  was  right  in  saying 
that  I  had  worked  too  hard,  and  that  I  had 
confined  myself  too  closely.  A  sense  of  physi 
cal  oppression  seized  me  again,  and  I  felt  that  if 
I  had  not  air,  and  cold,  fresh  air  at  once,  I  should 
choke.  Uncle  Larry,  with  his  back  to  me,  was 
bending  over  the  fire,  building  up  the  hickory 
logs  ;  there  were  laughing  knots  of  men  in  both 
the  parlor  and  the  dining-room.  With  a  hasty 
and  perhaps  inarticulate  word  of  explanation  to 
Larry,  I  pushed  through  the  curtain  which 
hung  across  the  opening  in  the  bookcase  and 
concealed  the  little  door  leading  into  the  hall. 
This  door  was  unlocked,  and  I  passed  through 
it,  leaving  it  open.  Seizing  my  hat  from  the 
stand  in  the  hall,  I  stepped  out  upon  the  stoop 
and  stood  in  the  outer  air  with  the  house-door 
ajar  behind  me. 

Almost    opposite    Larry's    house   is   one   of 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


237 


the  iron  masts  which  support  the  electric 
lamps,  and  leaning  against  this  tall  post  was  a 
man  whose  figure  seemed  to  be  remotely  famil 
iar  to  me,  but  to  whom  I  paid  no  attention  at  the 
moment.  The  sharp  air  of  the  chill  October  night 
revived  me.  The  avenue  was  quiet  and  deserted, 
and  the  faint  echoes  of  a  noisy  torchlight  pro 
cession  crossing  Union  Square  were  the  only 
sounds  that  broke  the  silence.  As  I  turned  to  go 
back  into  the  house,  I  saw  that  a  man  was 
coming  up  the  steps,  and  I  recognized  him  as  the 
man  I  had  seen  standing  against  the  post  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  I  could  not  close  the 
door  in  his  face,  and  I  delayed  until  he  stood 
beside  me. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  Mr.  Laughton  ?  "  I  said, 
turning  toward  him.  His  slouch  hat  was  pulled 
down  over  his  face,  and  he  was  muffled  in  a  scarf 
which  concealed  his  features,  yet  I  saw,  or  I 
thought  I  saw,  a  man  whom  I  had  not  met  for 
years.  I  drew  back  instinctively,  and  stood  on 
my  guard.  Suddenly  I  became  conscious  of  a 
strong  odor,  a  strange  and  pungent  perfume  of 
overpowering  and  enervating  fragrance.  I  recalled 
dimly  that  I  had  met  this  same  curious  scent  once 
before  in  the  East  at  a  fortune-teller's,  at  the 
house  of  an  old  hag,  accused  of  dealing  in 
poisons.  My  suspicions  were  aroused,  but  under 
the  influence  of  the  mysterious  and  penetrating 
drug,  my  will  was  inert  and  my  muscles  were 


238 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


lifeless.  I  fell  forward  supinely  into  the  arms  of 
the  stranger.  I  was  aware  that  he  closed  the 
door  of  the  house  gently,  and  that  he  then  bore 
me  down  the  steps  to  the  sidewalk,  half  carrying 
me  and  half  aiding  my  automatic  movements.  At 
the  corner  he  stopped  a  carriage,  and  then  I  be 
came  wholly  unconscious.  It  seemed  as  though 
I  were  in  the  power  of  my  enemy,  and  that  he  was 
binding  me  with  cords,  and  that  all  my  struggles 
were  vain.  Then  I  burst  my  bonds  asunder  and 
soared  upward  toward  an  ineffable  glory,  which 
shone  farther  and  farther  aloft  in  the  etherial  space 
beyond  the  world.  But  gradually  the  light  faded 
away  and  all  was  dim,  dark,  and  at  last  black  as 
midnight.  Solitude  encompassed  me  about,  and 
a  sense  of  desolate  loneliness  weighed  me  down 
and  chilled  me.  Slowly  I  awoke,  to  find  myself 
full  of  dull  aches  and  nauseating  pain.  I  was 
alone  and  in  the  dark.  There  was  a  rhythmical 
motion  of  the  flooring  under  me.  As  my  senses 
came  to  me,  doubtfully  at  first,  but  after  a  while 
more  clearly,  I  knew  that  I  was  on  the  water. 
I  staggered  to  my  feet,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I 
had  made  sure  that  I  was  in  the  hold  of  a  ship. 
I  had  been  kidnapped — and  the  boat  was  bear 
ing  me  away  from  you.  My  strength  returned, 
and  my  wrath  arose. 

For  a  long  while  there  was  no  answer  to  my 
call.  I  could  hear  voices,  and  the  creaking  of 
cordage,  and  now  and  again  the  tramp  of  feet  on 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


239 


deck  far  above  my  head.  As  my  eyes  became 
used  to  the  darkness,  I  saw  that  I  was  in  the 
lazaretto,  the  little  compartment  often  found 
under  the  captain's  cabin  of  a  sailing  vessel. 
Around  me  were  barrels  of  beef  and  boxes  of 
provisions  and  other  of  the  ship's  stores.  The 
only  mode  of  egress  from  this  lazaretto  was 
through  the  hatch  into  the  cabin  above.  As  no 
attention  was  paid  to  my  angry  outcry,  I  heaped 
up  a  few  boxes  and,  standing  upon  them,  I  began 
to  hammer  on  the  deck  above  me.  When  I  had 
nearly  worn  myself  out  in  the  vain  effort  to  force 
some  one  to  release  me,  there  were  footsteps 
overhead,  and  the  hatch  was  opened.  I  was 
almost  blinded  at  first  by  the  sudden  flood  of 
light,  and  my  head  was  dazed  with  pain.  "  Let 
me  out ! "  I  cried,  to  the  man  who  had  lifted  the 
hatch. 

"  Che  f  "  he  said,  in  Italian,  "  what  have  we 
here  ?  " 

He  was  a  stout,  good-looking  and  good- 
natured  Italian,  and  I  took  him  to  be  the  steward 
of  the  vessel. 

"  Let  me  out ! "  I  cried,  in  Italian,  thrusting 
myself  up  into  the  cabin.  "  And  now  where  is 
the  captain  ?  " 

He  answered  that  the  captain  was  on  deck.  I 
sprang  up  the  companion-way  and  stood  again 
in  the  open  air.  I  was  on  the  deck  of  an  Italian 
bark  of  about  twelve  hundred  tons.  We  were 


240 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


heading  east-southeast,  and  there  was  a  stiff 
breeze  from  the  northwest.  We  were  out  of 
sight  of  land.  The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens 
and  it  was  nearly  noon  :  I  had  been  unconscious 
for  at  least  twelve  hours,  and  perhaps  longer. 

As  I  came  on  deck  the  captain  was  standing 
amidships,  getting  ready  to  take  an  observation. 
He  was  a  wily  and  wiry  little  Genoese,  with  sharp 
and  piercing  eyes  and  a  full  black  beard.  He 
turned  to  me  as  I  rushed  up  the  hatchway,  and 
asked, 

"  Who  is  this  ?  " 

There  was  an  affectation  of  surprise  in  his 
voice,  but  angry  as  I  was,  I  noticed  that  he 
seemed  not  a  little  uneasy,  and  that  he  glanced 
restlessly  about.  In  answer  to  his  question,  a 
burly  ruffian  with  heavy  eyebrows  and  an  evil 
mouth — he  was  the  first  mate — said  that  I  was 
the  sailor  who  had  been  brought  on  board  dead 
drunk. 

"  I  am  not  a  sailor,"  I  declared;  "and  I  was 
not  drunk ! " 

"  Oh  ho ! "  cried  the  mate.  "  He  was  not 
drunk  ! — and  he  was  so  stupid  with  drink  that  we 
had  to  hoist  him  aboard,  and  put  him  in  the 
lazaretto ! " 

"  I  was  not  drunk,"  I  repeated,  "  though  I 
may  have  been  drugged." 

"  That's  a  likely  story,"  sneered  the  mate. 

"  And  I  am  not  a  sailor !  "  I  continued,  vehem- 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


241 


ently  ;  "  I  am  an  American.     I  demand  that  you 
set  me  ashore  at  once." 

The  captain  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
seemingly  made  up  his  mind.  "  I  have  nothing 
to  do  with  all  this.  You  are  engaged  as  a  sailor, 
and  you  must  do  your  work  and — " 

"  But  I  am  not  a  sailor,  I  tell  you ! "  I  repeated. 

"  You  must  be  a  sailor,  or  why  are  you  here?" 
the  captain  returned. 

"  I  do  not  know  why  I  am  here,"  I  replied, 
"nor  how  I  got  here.  I  am  an  American — a 
gentleman — not  a  sailor !  I  can  prove  to  you 
what  I  say  !  " 

"  How  ?  "  asked  the  captain,  coldly,  keeping 
his  piercing  eyes  on  me. 

I  was  about  to  say  that  my  note-book,  my 
pocket-book,  my  watch,  would  all  show  that  I 
was  what  I  pretended  to  be,  but  as  I  put  my 
hands  to  my  pockets  I  saw  that  my  clothes  had 
been  changed.  I  had  on  a  suit  of  coarse  sailor's 
clothes,  and  the  pockets  were  empty. 

"  It  seems  I  have  been  robbed,  too  !"  I  shouted, 
for  I  had  no  longer  any  control  over  my  temper. 
"  My  clothes  have  been  taken  from  me,  and  my 
money  and  my  watch — "  and  here  I  saw  that 
the  ring  you  had  lent  me  was  gone  also — "  and 
an  opal  ring !  I  want  them  back  at  once,  and  I 
want  to  be  set  ashore." 

"  I  cannot  take  my  ship  back  just  to  oblige  a 
sailor,"  said  the  captain. 
16 


242 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"  But  I  am  not  a  sailor !  "  I  replied,  "  and  I 
will  pay  you  well." 

The  captain  gave  me  another  piercing  glance ; 
then  he  said,  "  Enough  of  this  !  I  have  lost 
time  enough.  You  are  now  at  sea,  on  my  ship, 
and  you  must  do  your  work.  When  we  get  to 
port  you  can  go,  not  before." 

"  To  what  port  are  you  bound  ?  "  I  asked,  as  I 
began  to  feel  the  helplessness  of  my  position. 

"  San  Francisco,"  answered  the  burly  mate. 

"  San  Francisco  ?  "  I  repeated,  in  horror. 

"  San  Francisco  is  our  port,"  the  mate  replied, 
with  a  harsh  laugh;  "and  it  may  be  six  months 
before  you  get  ashore." 

"  Six  months !  "  I  cried,  in  agony.  "  I  cannot 
do  it !  Put  me  ashore  now,  for  the  love  of 
God!" 

"  Enough  of  this,"  said  the  captain  again,  as 
he  raised  his  instrument  to  take  the  sun.  "  Have 
this  man  go  forward  !  " 

"  Go  forward,"  ordered  the  mate,  striking  me 
on  the  shoulder.  My  heart  was  full  of  rage  and 
despair.  It  was  a  joy  to  have  some  one  whom  I 
could  hit  back.  I  felt  like  a  wild  beast  as  I 
sprang  at  the  mate  and  knocked  him  down. 
Two  of  the  crew  pulled  me  from  him.  He  rose 
to  his  feet  unsteadily  and  seized  a  belaying-pin. 
The  men  released  me,  and  I  looked  him  in  the 
eye.  Without  a  word  he  felled  me  to  the  deck 
with  a  blow  of  the  pin.  As  I  lay  motionless  he 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


243 


was  about  to  strike  me  again,  when  a  voice,  with 
a  strong  Maltese  accent,  said,  "  Let  him  alone 
now.  Do  not  kill  him ;  we  shall  want  him  soon 
enough  if  this  gale  keeps  on."  Then  the  same 
voice  said  "  Take  him  into  the  forecastle." 

When  I  came  to  it  was  late  at  night,  and  I  was 
lying  in  a  bunk  in  the  forecastle.  The  ship  was 
tossing,  and  there  was  a  hard  gale  from  the  north 
west.  I  lay  dozing  as  it  struck  eight  bells  and 
the  men  off  watch  came  into  the  forecastle.  They 
were  full  of  rough  sympathy.  They  told  me 
that  the  mate  was  a  brute,  but  that  it  was  lucky 
I  had  struck  him  and  not  the  captain,  or  I  should 
be  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  with  a  dagger  in  my 
heart.  They  said  that  the  captain  was  quiet 
enough  generally,  but  a  very  devil  when  roused. 
He  was  half  owner  of  the  bark,  which  was  called 
the  Vengeance  of  God.  There  were  thirteen  men 
before  the  mast,  including  myself: — I  thought 
of  the  night  before,  when  we  had  also  been  thir 
teen  at  Uncle  Larry's  dinner.  With  the  cook, 
steward,  carpenter,  two  mates  and  the  captain, 
we  were  nineteen  all  told.  The  men  informed 
me  that  I  had  been  put  in  the  starboard  watch — 
the  captain's  watch,  as  it  is  called — where  I 
should  be  under  the  second  mate,  who  was  a 
good  fellow,  kindly  and  not  overbearing;  but 
unfortunately  careless.  It  was  the  second  mate 
who  had  interposed  to  save  me.  The  crew  soon 
turned  in  and  left  me  alone  with  myself. 


244 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


The  absolute  helplessness  of  my  position  burst 
upon  me  with  overpowering  force,  and  I  knew 
the  futility  of  resistance.  It  was  worse  than  use 
less  for  me  to  rage,  to  storm,  to  threaten.  The 
captain  did  not  fear  me,  and  I  could  not  conquer 
him  by  force.  My  only  chance  was  to  bide  my 
time,  to  trust  to  good  fortune  to  come  to  my 
rescue,  and  in  the  meanwhile  to  make  the  best  of 
it.  I  was  alone,  miles  off  shore,  in  a  foreign  ship, 
without  a  friend.  It  took  little  reflection  to 
prove  to  me  that  I  was  powerless,  that  my  fate 
was  no  longer  in  my  own  control,  and  that  I  had 
best  accept  the  inevitable  with  a  good  grace.  I 
abandoned  all  hope  of  rebellion,  and  determined 
to  do  my  duty  while  I  was  aboard  the  boat,  ready 
to  seize  the  first  chance  to  leave  it 

I  knew  nothing  about  the  ship,  or  the  captain, 
or  the  crew,  but  I  was  aware  that  the  cruelty  of 
a  captain  may  make  his  ship  a  floating  hell.  I 
did  not  dare  to  guess  what  was  in  store  for  me, 
or  what  ill-fortune  the  future  might  bring  forth. 
I  could  not  tell  whether  the  captain  was  the  ac 
complice  or  the  hireling  of  the  man  who  had 
wrought  this  wrong  against  me.  I  did  not  know 
whether  I  could  expect  mercy  from  him,  but  I  did 
know  that  I  was  wholly  in  his  power,  and  that  my 
utmost  effort  would  avail  nothing.  He  could  do 
with  me  as  he  pleased ;  he  could  keep  me  in  chains ; 
he  could  condemn  me  to  solitary  confinement; 
he  could  torture  me  at  will.  Yet  the  fear  of  these 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


245 


things  did  not  dishearten  me,  for  I  felt  that  I 
could  bear  them, — nay,  more,  that  I  would  prefer 
them  to  the  mental  anguish  I  was  undergoing.  The 
thought  that  I  had  parted  from  you  in  anger,  that 
I  had  been  torn  from  you  without  a  word  of  ex 
planation  or  a  chance  of  farewell,  that  I  could  not 
bid  you  take  heart  and  be  of  good  cheer,  that  I 
had  left  you  plunged  in  depths  of  doubt  which 
must  slowly  turn  to  despair — this  was  almost 
more  than  I  could  bear.  The  galley  slave, 
chained  to  the  oar;  the  prisoner  for  life,  confined 
in  the  dark  cell ;  the  victim  of  the  Inquisition 
pinioned  to  the  rack — these  may  each  of  them 
suffer  the  tortures  of  the  damned  (and  I  foresaw 
that  I  might  soon  be  made  to  suffer  as  they 
suffered), — but  what  was  the  pain  inflicted  on  the 
body,  however  acute,  and  however  prolonged, 
compared  with  the  protracted  agony  of  soul 
which  I  saw  before  me.  The  ingenuity  of  a 
fiend  could  have  found  no  keener  punishment. 

In  the  morning,  when  it  came  the  turn  of  my 
watch  to  go  on  deck,  I  went  with  them. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  captain,  as  he  saw  me.  "  You 
have  come  to  your  senses,  have  you  ?  Now  let's 
have  no  more  of  this  nonsense  !  " 

The  gale  had  moderated  during  the  night,  and 
we  were  sent  up  aloft  to  set  all  sail,  for  we  had 
been  running  under  very  little  canvas.  I  felt 
that  the  captain  kept  his  eye  on  me,  and  I  did 


246  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

my  work  as  neatly  and  as  quickly  as  I  could. 
You  know  that  I  am  fond  of  the  sea,  and  that  I 
have  had  my  share  of  experience  as  a  sailor-man. 
Even  the  Italian  terms  were  not  strange  to  me, 
for  I  had  been  all  around  the  Mediterranean  in  an 
Italian  boat. 

As  I  came  down  from  the  rigging  the  captain 
called  me. 

"  Here,  you  !  "  he  cried. 

I  came  to  him. 

"  You  said  you  were  not  a  sailor,"  he  said. 
"  You  lie,  it  seems.  You  are  a  sailor." 

I  answered  that  I  had  told  the  truth,  and  that 
I  was  not  a  sailor,  although  I  had  sailed  a  boat 
many  a  time,  and  had  even  studied  navigation. 
The  captain  looked  at  me  as  I  said  this,  but  he 
made  no  reply.  For  weeks  after  this,  he  did  not 
speak  to  me  or  take  any  notice  of  me  ;  and  yet 
I  was  conscious  not  infrequently  that  his  sharp 
eyes  were  on  me.  He  spared  me  the  irons,  the 
imprisonment,  the  bodily  torture,  I  had  half  ex 
pected.  In  the  main,  he  did  not  treat  his  crew 
badly,  and  he  treated  me  as  he  treated  the 
others.  Although  I  felt  that  he  gave  me  more 
attention  than  he  bestowed  on  the  rest  of  the 
crew,  yet  he  did  not  abuse  me  or  offer  me  any 
indignity.  Except  for  the  constant  watchfulness 
with  which  he  followed  me,  he  showed  the  same 
indifference  to  me  as  to  the  other  men  before 
the  mast.  I  studied  his  face  as  occasion  served, 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


247 


and  I  thought  it  was  not  the  face  of  a  bad  man  : 
he  was  high-tempered  and  he  was  weak,  rather 
than  evil.  I  was  in  doubt  whether  he  was  the 
accomplice  of  the  villain  who  had  betrayed  me 
into  his  hands.  From  chance  words  dropped 
by  the  second  mate,  the  friendly  Maltese,  in 
whose  watch  I  was,  I  began  to  believe  that  per 
haps  it  was  not  the  captain,  but  the  ruffianly 
first  mate  who  was  responsible  for  my  involun 
tary  voyage.  I  felt  that  this  fellow  hated  me. 
I  knew  I  hated  him. 

We  had  a  stiff  breeze  behind  us  all  the  way 
down  the  coast  and  across  the  equator.  The 
weather  was  warm  and  delightful.  We  were 
making  good  time.  I  hoped  for  a  storm  which 
would  force  us  to  put  into  port,  but  as  there 
seemed  no  chance  of  that,  I  rejoiced  that  we 
sailed  along  as  fast  as  we  did.  I  counted  every 
knot  that  we  made,  and  I  checked  off  the  miles 
we  had  yet  to  make.  I  did  my  daily  work,  the 
dull  routine  work  of  a  sailor  on  a  sailing  vessel 
when  all  sails  are  set  and  stay  set  for  weeks  at  a 
time.  The  work  was  not  hard,  and  it  did  not 
employ  my  thoughts.  It  occupied  my  hands,  but 
it  left  my  mind  free — and  there  were  days  when 
I  thought  I  should  go  mad.  I  saw  all  the  doubt 
and  all  the  misery  that  my  unexpected  depart 
ure  and  inexplicable  absence  would  surely  cause. 
I  knew  that  it  might  be  months  and  months 
before  word  from  me  could  reach  you — if  it  ever 


248 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


reached  you  at  all.  I  knew  that  I  might  never 
leave  the  ship  alive,  and  that  I  might  never  see 
land  again  ;  and  you  would  not  know  what  had 
become  of  me.  I  could  not  fail  to  imagine  the 
agony  and  the  anguish  of  uncertainty  which  you 
would  feel.  I  thought  of  it  day  and  night. 
You  were  never  out  of  my  mind.  Yet  there 
was  no  way  out  of  the  misery,  and  there  was  no 
use  in  rebelling :  I  must  bear  it  with  the  forti 
tude  I  knew  you  would  show,  and  it  was  the 
thought  of  your  example  which  gave  me 
strength.  Many  a  night,  as  I  stood  on  the 
forecastle  looking  out  over  the  ocean,  I  saw 
you  as  I  had  seen  you  last — in  the  Bower — 
through  the  opening  in  the  screen,  half  hidden 
by  the  vines.  I  saw  you  with  the  bunch  of 
yellow  roses  at  your  waist,  faintly  outlined 
against  the  descending  dusk.  It  was  a  beautiful 
vision  and  a  gracious  memory  ;  and  I  loved  to 
recur  to  it.  Though  it  pained  me,  it  comforted 
me  also.  Yet  when  I  saw  it,  I  did  not  dare  to 
wonder  how  you  accounted  for  my  sudden 
absence:  I  knew  you  loved  me  and  I  trusted 
you. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  my  thoughts  the  life 
would  have  been  endurable  ;  the  Vengeance  of 
God  was  a  new  boat,  and  the  captain  knew  his 
business.  The  crew  were  good-natured,  and  I 
had  their  rough  sympathy.  The  second  mate 
was  kindly,  and  I  had  only  the  first  mate  to  be 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


249 


on  my  guard  against.  The  sailors  were  all 
afraid  of  him,  and  they  believed  he  had  the  evil 
eye.  He  never  looked  at  me  without  hatred  in 
his  glance.  Fortunately,  I  was  not  in  his  watch. 
I  paid  no  attention  to  him,  but  did  my  work 
quietly  and  steadily. 

Off  the  Rio  de  la  Plata  we  got  into  a  pomparo, 
which  is  the  name  they  give  to  a  local  storm, 
often  found  there  and  peculiar  to  that  region.  It 
began  with  a  black  cloud  in  the  northwest,  like 
the  first  warning  of  a  summer  squall.  It  was  the 
captain's  watch,  and  the  second  mate  was  on  duty 
in  his  stead.  This  second  mate  was  a  jolly  and 
careless  Maltese,  and  he  did  not  take  the  warn 
ing  the  cloud  gave.  The  captain  chanced  to 
come  on  deck,  and  the  instant  he  saw  the  storm 
coming,  he  knew  what  was  wanted.  We  had  all 
sails  set.  First  we  took  in  the  royals  and  then 
the  top-gallant  sails.  Then  we  went  to  work  on 
the  flying-jib  and  the  gaff-top-sail ;  at  the  same 
time  we  clewed  the  top-sail  yards  down  and  close- 
reefed  the  main-top-sail.  By  the  time  we  got 
these  in,  it  was  blowing  pretty  fresh  and  we  had 
hard  work  to  take  in  the  fore-top-sail ;  and,  after  all, 
it  was  no  use,  for  although  we  got  it  clewed  up 
the  wind  blew  it  clean  off.  The  captain  held  the 
second  mate  responsible  for  this  mishap,  and  he 
broke  him  and  appointed  me.  I  refused  and 
pleaded  hard  for  the  Maltese.  It  was  no  use. 
The  captain  was  determined  that  the  man  should 


250 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


not  hold  the  place  any  longer.  I  still  refused, 
but  I  yielded  when  the  Maltese  himself  begged 
me  to  take  the  place,  suggesting  that  as  I  was 
going  to  leave  the  ship  at  the  first  port,  I  might 
then  urge  his  re-appointment.  The  first  mate,  the 
stalwart  ruffian  who  had  struck  me,  did  what  he 
could  to  prevent  my  promotion.  But  I  accepted 
the  position.  I  did  not  know  how  large  a  share  the 
captain  had  had  in  my  abduction,  and  I  guessed 
that  he  might  have  given  me  the  post  of  mate 
as  a  peace-offering. 

I  had  made  early  inquiries  as  to  the  chance 
of  sending  a  letter,  and  I  had  learned  that  unless 
we  happened  to  be  stopped  by  a  passing  ship — 
which  was  most  unlikely — the  first  possible 
opportunity  would  be  off  Pernambuco.  There 
the  fishermen  put  off  in  light  catamarans,  and 
they  are  often  met  with  in  the  track  of  vessels 
bound  around  the  Horn  ;  they  are  always  willing 
to  take  letters,  accepting  the  gift  of  a  bottle  of 
liquor  or  of  a  piece  of  beef  as  pre-payment  of 
postage.  On  the  chance  of  sending  by  a  passing 
ship,  I  had  written  a  long  letter  to  you  ;  but  the 
days  went  by  and  no  ship  hailed  us.  We  were 
becalmed  for  a  while  in  the  tropics,  and  it  was 
quite  seven  weeks  after  we  had  left  New  York 
before  we  came  within  the  range  of  the  Pernam 
buco  fishermen.  As  the  possibility  of  commu 
nicating  with  you  shone  nearer  and  nearer,  I  felt 
happier.  I  began  to  accept  my  separation,  if 


THE  LAST  MEE  TING.  2 5  I 

only  I  could  tell  you  where  I  was  and  how  it 
was  I  had  been  taken  away.  I  wrote  you  a  long 
letter  pouring  out  the  love  that  filled  my  heart 
and  strengthened  me. 

But  my  spirits  sank  as  rapidly  as  they  had 
risen  when  we  passed  off  Pernambuco  and  no 
fishing-craft  had  been  seen.  It  might  be,  after 
all,  that  I  was  not  to  have  the  chance  of  sending 
my  letter.  At  last,  on  Christmas  Eve,  the  look 
out  cried  out  first  that  there  was  a  sail  in  sight — 
later,  that  it  was  a  fisherman's  catamaran ;  and 
then  I  knew  that  I  might  send  you  as  a  Christ 
mas  present  news  of  the  man  who  loved  you  and 
longed  for  you  and  thought  of  you,  and  of  you 
only,  day  and  night,  as  he  sailed  further  and 
further  away  from  you. 

I  told  the  captain  I  had  a  letter  to  send.  He 
gave  me  a  piercing  look  from  his  penetrating 
eyes,  and  said  that  I  might  put  it  in  his  bundle, 
which  was  in  his  cabin.  I  did  so,  and  by  the 
time  I  was  again  on  deck,  the  frail  little  craft, 
with  two  fishermen  on  board,  was  almost  along 
side  of  us.  We  hailed  them  and  threw  them  a 
rope,  and  they  made  fast.  The  captain  gave  them 
a  piece  of  beef  in  exchange  for  a  few  fish.  Then 
he  asked  them  if  they  would  take  letters  to  land 
for  us.  They  agreed  willingly,  and  the  captain 
sent  the  mate  for  the  bundle.  When  it  came,  he 
bade  the  steward  get  a  bottle  of  spirits,  and  he 
passed  the  bottle  and  the  bundle  of  letters  over 


252 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


the  side  to  the  fishermen.  Then  the  catamaran 
was  cast  loose,  and  in  a  few  minutes  it  had 
dropped  behind  us  out  of  sight  in  the  night 
fall. 

I  walked  my  watch  that  night  with  a  warm 
heart,  thinking  of  you  and  calculating  that  you 
might  get  my  letter  in  less  than  a  month,  possibly 
by  the  middle  of  January.  But  this  hope  and 
this  joy  did  not  abide  with  me  long. 

When  we  got  down  to  the  Horn,  we  had  a  fair 
wind  from  the  north,  and  the  captain  tried  to  go 
through  the  Straits  of  Lemaire,  between  the 
mainland  of  South  America  and  Statenland. 
But  we  had  scarcely  got  well  into  the  straits 
before  we  struck  a  heavy  gale  from  the  south 
west.  We  had  to  make  a  harbor,  and  in  tacking 
ship,  as  she  came  up  with  her  head  to  the  wind, 
we  shipped  a  tremendous  sea,  which  took  the 
first  mate  off  the  forecastle.  We  never  saw  him 
again.  The  captain  made  me  first  mate,  and  at 
my  request  re-appointed  the  former  second  mate 
to  his  old  position.  Now  that  the  first  mate  was 
gone,  I  was  the  only  man  on  board,  except  the 
captain,  who  knew  how  to  navigate  a  ship  ;  but 
none  of  the  sailors  were  jealous  of  me  or  be 
grudged  my  advancement.  I  was  told  to  take 
possession  of  the  first  mate's  cabin.  The  first 
thing  I  found  there,  hidden  in  a  corner,  was  my 
letter  to  you  !  The  evil  wretch  had  stolen  it  as  he 
brought  the  letters  from  the  captain's  cabin  to 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


253 


the  side  of  the  boat.  I  was  so  happy  at  the  hope 
of  writing  to  you  that  I  had  not  suspected  him. 
And  now  his  treachery  had  plunged  me  from 
heaven  to  hell  again.  It  was  lucky  for  the  man 
that  he  was  dead.  Repining  was  useless,  I  knew, 
and  I  resolved  to  make  the  best  of  my  ill-fortune. 
I  had  at  least  the  consolation  that  I  had  accom 
plished  the  half  of  my  journey. 

Then  the  wind  failed  us,  and  we  made  slow 
sailing  for  a  while.  But  the  longest  voyage  must 
draw  to  an  end  at  last.  About  a  week  before  we 
could  hope  to  reach  San  Francisco,  we  made 
land,  and  I  caught  my  first  glimpse  of  the  coast 
of  lower  California,  and  my  heart  beat  high, 
knowing  that  I  should  soon  set  foot  on  the  soil 
you  trod,  though  I  might  be  separated  from  you 
by  thousands  of  miles. 

The  Maltese  was  again  the  second  mate ;  so 
far  from  being  jealous  of  my  promotion  over  his 
head,  he  was  grateful  to  me  for  his  reappoint- 
ment.  As  we  came  up  the  Pacific  coast,  I  be 
came  aware  that  he  had  a  trick  of  lingering  near 
me,  and  of  hesitating,  as  though  he  had  some 
thing  he  would  like  to  say,  but  did  not  know  how 
to  broach  the  subject.  When  I  was  once  firmly 
convinced  of  this,  I  waited  for  a  favorable  occa 
sion,  and  then  I  got  him  to  talk.  He  began  on  an 
indifferent  subject,  but  he  soon  turned  the  con 
versation  to  the  dead  mate,  the  ferocious  ruffian 
who  had  been  washed  overboard. 


254 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"  'Tis  a  good  thing  he  is  dead,"  said  the  Mal 
tese.  "  He  had  the  evil  eye." 

"  'Twas  a  sudden  death,"  I  suggested,  hoping 
to  lead  him  on,  as  I  began  to  suspect  that  he 
knew  something  about  my  abduction. 

"  'Tis  not  for  you  to  speak  for  him,"  returned 
the  Maltese.  "  He  was  your  enemy,  and  the  friend 
of  your  enemy." 

"  The  friend  of  my  enemy,"  I  repeated. 

"  You  are  not  a  sailor,"  he  answered.  "  You 
did  not  come  on  this  voyage  willingly.  You 
were  sold  by  an  enemy.  It  was  the  dead  man 
who  brought  you  on  board,  and  he  was  paid. 
There  was  another  man  in  the  boat  when  he 
brought  you.  This  man  gave  him  money.  This 
man  was  your  enemy,  for  he — "  Then  the 
Maltese  hesitated 

"  Go  on,"  I  cried. 

"  No,  I  have  said  enough,"  he  answered. 

"  Do  you  know  the  other  man  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied;  "  I  had  seen  him  only  once 
before." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  In  front  of  '  Oliver's.'  " 

I  knew  that  "  Oliver's  "  was  a  sailor's  board 
ing-house  of  the  worst  character. 

"  When  ?  " 

"  In  the  afternoon,  talking  to  the  dead  man — 
plotting  mischief  together." 

That  was  all  I  could  get  out  of  him.     Plainly 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


255 


enough  he  knew  more.     But  I  could  not  per 
suade  him  to  tell  me. 

The  night  after  we  made  the  coast,  there  was 
a  full  moon,  and  the  man  on  the  lookout  put  his 
trust  in  the  light  and  went  to  sleep.     It  was  my 
watch,  but  the  spread  of  canvas  kept  me  from 
seeing  out.     About  midnight  there  came  a  sud 
den  crash,  followed  by  loud  cries  of  alarm.     We 
had  run  into  a  small  sail-boat,  and  it  had  filled 
and  sunk.     The  ship  was  rounded  to  at  once, 
and  a  boat  was  lowered,  and  I  went  back  in  it  to 
where  we  could  see  the  men  who  had  been  in  the 
sail-boat,  now  struggling  in  the  water.    The  crew 
gave  way  sturdily,  but  the  distance  was  too  great. 
One  of  the  men  threw  up  his  hands  and  sank 
for  the  last  time,  long  before  we  could  reach  him. 
The  other  had  a  stronger  will  and  more  resist 
ance.     There  was  a  high  sea,  stirred  up  by  the 
gale  which  had  blown  their  boat  off  shore,  and 
the  waves  were   fast  overcoming   the   survivor. 
As  we  came  near  him,  he  sank.     We  waited  on 
our  oars  in  the  hope  that  he  would  rise,  and  our 
hopes  were  justified.     He  came  to  the  surface 
within  an  oar's  length  of  me,  but  with  the  life 
almost  beaten   out  of    him.     The   men   backed 
the  boat,  and  I  reached  out  to  drag  him  out  of  the 
water.     As  he  clasped  my  hand  convulsively  the 
moonlight  fell  full  on  our  faces.     He  knew  me, 
and   I  knew   him ;    he  was   the   man  who   had 
drugged  me  and  sold  me  as  a  sailor ;  he  was  the 


256 


THE  LAST  MEETING, 


man  who  had  tried  to  shoot  me ;  he  was  the  one 
enemy  I  had  in  the  world,  though  I  had  saved 
his  life  once,  and  though  I  had  spared  it  again. 
How  he  came  to  be  there  I  did  not  know,  but 
I  recognized  him  beyond  a  doubt,  and  I  saw  the 
black  heart  burn  on  his  bare  forehead.  And  he 
recognized  me ;  he  gave  me  a  look  of  hatred,  as 
he  said  "  Not  again !  "  and  with  a  sudden  wrench, 
he  released  his  hand  from  mine,  threw  it  above 
his  head  and  sank  ! 

We  waited,  resting  on  our  oars,  but  he  did 
not  rise  again.  I  had  met  Constantine  Volloni- 
des  for  the  last  time  ! 

The  next  morning  the  Maltese  came  to  me. 

"  You  tried  to  save  a  man's  life  last  night,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  but  the  man  was 
drowned." 

"  Paolo  tells  me,"  he  continued, — Paolo  was 
the  name  of  a  sailor  in  my  watch,  who  had  been 
in  the  boat  with  me  the  night  before, — "  that  the 
man  drowned  himself.  'Tis  well.  He  was  a  bad 
man.  He  is  better  dead." 

"  Did  you  know  him  ?  "  I  asked,  in  astonish 
ment. 

"  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  Paolo  was  with  me  in  New 
York  when  your  enemy  talked  to  the  dead  mate. 
Paolo  saw  the  man  last  night.  It  is  the  same 
man.  Your  enemy  is  dead.  It  is  well." 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


257 


"  He  was  my  enemy,"  I  said,  "  and  he  is 
dead." 

The  Maltese  lingered  by  me  as  though  he  had 
something  more  to  say.  I  had  a  presentiment 
that  he  would  tell  me  now  what  he  had  refused 
to  tell  me  before. 

He  came  closer  to  me  and  lowered  his  voice. 
"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Brotherhood  of  the 
Sea  ?  "  he  asked,  in  an  awed  whisper. 

Now,  in  my  wanderings  along  the  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean  I  had  been  told  of  a  secret 
order  of  sailors,  a  sort  of  marine  Carbonari. 
I  had  heard  more  evil  than  good  of  the 
Brotherhood  of  the  Sea,  and  I  had  come  to  look 
on  it  as  a  league  of  outlaws,  half  brigands  and 
half  pirates.  I  told  the  Maltese  what  I  knew. 

"True,"  he  said,  "they  are  bad  men.  The 
dead  mate  belonged  to  the  Brotherhood  of  the 
Sea.  So  did  your  enemy." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  know,"  he  answered ;  "  that  is  enough." 
Then  he  paused  and  gave  me  a  kindly  look. 
"  Did  it  pain  you  much  to  make  this  voyage  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Did  it  pain  me  much  ?  "  I  repeated — and  then 
I  told  him  how  I  had  suffered  unspeakable  tor 
ment  every  hour  since  I  had  left  New  York,  not 
knowing  what  might  befall  you. 

He  listened  sympathetically,  and  said,  "  If  one 
voyage  were  bad,  two  would  be  worse." 
17 


258 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


"What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  cried. 

Again  he  hesitated  a  little  and  drew  nearer  to 
me.  "  You  have  heard  of  the  Brotherhood  of 
the  Sea — did  you  ever  hear  of  the  way  in  which 
the  Brotherhood  of  the  Sea  punished  a  traitor?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  He  was  drugged,  as  you  were.  He  was 
shipped  as  a  sailor,  as  you  were.  When  he 
reached  port,  he  was  drugged  again  and  shipped 
on  another  vessel.  And  so  on  again  and  again. 
He  was  never  allowed  to  set  foot  on  land.  He 
was  passed  from  ship  to  ship,  never  knowing 
where  he  was  going.  His  friends  would  never 
hear  of  him  again.  He  might  live  forever  at 
sea,  going  from  ship  to  ship,  and  from  port  to 
port." 

"  Well  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Well,  that  was  to  be  your  fate !  "  he  answered. 

"  I  was  to  be  drugged  again,"  I  cried ;  "  and 
shipped  again?  I  cannot  believe  it.  Even  his 
devilish  malignity  would  revolt  from  that." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Maltese,  gravely.  "  That 
was  to  be  your  fate,  I  know." 

"But  how?" 

"  I  know.  No  matter  how.  There  is  a  mem 
ber  of  the  Brotherhood  on  board  this  boat.  No 
matter  who.  He  talks  to  me.  I  know.  The 
dead  mate  talked  to  him.  All  was  prepared. 
They  were  to  get  a  great  price.  Your  enemy 
would  be  in  California,  and  when  you  had  been 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 


259 


shipped  to  the  Indies,  the  dead  mate  was  to  tell 
your  enemy." 

And  from  this  fate,  far  worse  than  death,  I  had 
been  saved  only  by  the  wave  which  swept  the 
mate  overboard  as  we  were  going  through  the 
Straits  of  Lemaire. 

Less  than  a  week  after  Constantine  Vollonides 
had  unclasped  his  hand  from  mine,  under  the 
moonlight,  off  the  Californian  coast,  the  Ven 
geance  of  God  made  the  Golden  Gate,  and  ran  in 
between  the  heads  and  up  to  San  Francisco.  An 
hour  after  we  had  dropped  anchor,  I  telegraphed 
Uncle  Larry  to  break  the  news  to  you.  And  in 
another  hour  I  was  in  the  train  for  New  York. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

AFTER    MANY    DAYS. 

A  BOUT  the  middle  of  April  there  came  a 
lL  bright  and  glorious  spring  day  ;  a  radiant 
day  of  royal  weather  made  for  poets  and  lovers. 
Winifred  Marshall  stood  in  the  drawing-room  of 
Mrs.  Button's  house  with  her  hat  on.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  suit  of  dark  blue  cloth,  which 
revealed  the  exquisite  curves  of  her  graceful 
figure.  As  she  fastened  her  glove,  she  glanced 
again  at  the  clock.  Laurence  Laughton  had 
come  in  the  morning,  with  a  telegram  from 
Frederick  Olyphant,  announcing  his  arrival  in 
New  York  at  five  that  afternoon ;  and  Winifred 
had  at  once  besought  Uncle  Larry  to  take  her  to 
meet  him.  It  was  not  yet  four ;  but  she  was 
impatient  and  her  heart  beat  fast.  When  the  door 
bell  rang  with  a  gong-like  clang,  she  ran  into  the 
hall.  But  it  was  not  Laurence  Laughton.  It 
was  Pussy  Palmer. 

"  Oh,  Winifred !  "   cried  this  vivacious  young 
lady,  "  I've  such  news  ! " 

"  Yes  ? "  responded  Winifred,  with  her  mind 
miles  away. 
260 


AFTER  MANY  DA  VS.  26l 

"What  do  you  think?  I'm  going  to  be — " 

Here  Miss  Palmer  broke  off  abruptly,  having 
detected  her  friend's  absence  of  mind. 

"  Well,"  said  Winifred,  after  there  had  been 
a  little  silence,  "  go  on  ;  what  is  it?  " 

"  Winnie  Marshall !  "  Pussy  replied,  reproach 
fully.  "  I  think  it  is  just  horrid  of  you.  Here  I 
come  with  news,  real  important  news,  and  you 
go  on  thinking  about  something  else  all  the  time 
and  don't  pay  any  attention  to  me  at  all." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Pussy,"  Winifred  an 
swered,  bending  forward  impulsively  and  kissing 
her  friend.  "  I  know  I  was  not  listening  to  you. 
I — I  was  thinking  of  something  else.  Fred  will 
be  in  New  York  in  an  hour ! " 

"  Will  he  ?  "  cried  the  impulsive  Miss  Palmer, 
jumping  up  and  clapping  her  hands.  "  I'm  so 
glad  !  Then  you  can  be  married  the  same  time 
I  am !M 

"  Are  you  engaged  ?  "  Winifred  asked. 

"  Of  course  I  am.  That's  what  I  came  to  tell 
you.  I've  got  him  at  last !  I  couldn't  quite 
make  up  my  mind  for  a  long  while  whether  I 
wanted  him  or  not,  and  I  forbade  his  speaking  to 
me  until  we  heard  from  Fred.  But  now  we  have 
heard  from  Fred,  and  the  little  man  is  so  much 
in  love  with  me,  that  I  took  pity  on  him,  and  I 
shall  be  Mrs.  Hobson-Cholmondeley. 

"  He  is  a  good  fellow,"  Winifred  said,  "  and  I 
feel  sure  he  will  make  you  happy." 


262  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

"  I'll  make  it  warm  for  him,  if  he  doesn't," 
retorted  Miss  Palmer,  with  the  supreme  confi 
dence  of  a  young  lady  quite  able  to  take  care  of 
herself.  She  wore  a  huge  black  Rembrandt  hat 
which  was  most  becoming  to  her  fair  skin  and 
bright  hair. 

"  And  when  did  it  happen  ? "  inquired 
Winifred. 

"  Only  just  now.  You  are  the  first  one  I've 
told.  We  shan't  announce  it  for  a  week  or  two 
yet.  I  never  expected  it;  at  least,  not  all  of  a 
sudden.  He  went  to  the  Cooking-School  with 
me  this  afternoon,  and  I  made  chicken-croquettes. 
And  as  we  were  going  home,  he  said  that  those 
chicken-croquettes  were  very  good,  and  I  agreed, 
and  said  that  I  should  be  a  boss  cook,  sooner  or 
later.  Then  he  blushed  and  hesitated,  and  said 
he  wished  he  could  engage  me  permanently  as 
his  boss  cook.  And  I  said,  '  Oh,  Mr.  Hobson- 
Cholmondeley ! '  Then  he  went  on  and  told  me 
that  he  had  loved  me  for  weeks,  and  he  felt  he 
couldn't  live  without  me — and  without  my 
croquettes,  I  suppose.  He  seemed  so  serious,  as 
if  he  really  meant  it  And  he  has  very  pretty 
hair,  don't  you  think  so  ?  There's  a  lovely  wave 
in  it  right  over  his  forehead.  So  I  had  to  accept 
him.  He's  very  short,  I  know ;  but  then  I  am 
short  too ;  we're  a  pair.  If  we  lose  our  money, 
we  can  go  and  be  midgets  in  a  dime-museum  :  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  it  would  be  lots  of  fun  !  " 


AFTER  MANY  DA  YS. 


263 


There  was  another  clang  of  the  door-bell,  and 
Laurence  Laughton  was  ushered  into  the  draw 
ing-room. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Larry,"  cried  Pussy  Palmer, 
"  I've  such  news  for  you.  Guess  if  you  can." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Larry,  "per 
haps  you  are  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Somebody  must  have  told  you  1 "  Pussy 
declared,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"  And  who  is  the  victim  ?  "  asked  Laughton, 
smiling. 

"  It's  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley." 

"  I  thought  it  was  to  be  a  secret,"  interrupted 
Winifred. 

"  So  it  is.  I'm  not  going  to  tell  a  soul"  Miss 
Palmer  retorted.  "  I  don't  mind  you,  Uncle 
Larry.  You  don't  count !  " 

"No,  I  don't  count  now,"  echoed  Laurence, 
sadly. 

Winifred  looked  up  at  him  and  caught  his 
weary  expression,  the  only  visible  sign  of  the 
severe  struggle  for  self-mastery.  She  came  up 
to  him,  with  one  of  her  impulsive  movements, 
and  seized  his  hand,  and  said. 

"  My  best  friend, — how  can  I  ever  thank  you 
enough  for  all  the  comfort  and  strength  you  have 
given  me  ?  " 

"  By  saying  nothing  more  about  it,"  he 
answered,  raising  her  hand  gently  to  his  lips. 
Winifred  gave  him  a  long  and  earnest  look ;  and 


264  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

it  may  be  that  she  had  then  her  first  intimation 
of  the  truth. 

"  And  now  we  must  hurry  along  lively,"  said 
Laurence,  "  if  we  want  to  see  Fred's  arrival." 

"  I'll  skip  along,"  Pussy  Palmer  remarked ; 
"  I've  got  to  walk  down  to  Washington  Square, 
to  see  the  Duchess." 

"  You  have  a  secret  to  tell  her,  too,  I  suppose," 
Laurence  suggested,  as  they  passed  out  of  the 
house. 

"  That's  real  mean  of  you,"  laughed  Pussy ; 
"  but,  of  course,  I  may  give  her  a  hint  or  two. 
She  is  such  a  dear  old  soul." 

Laurence  could  not  help  wondering  how  Mrs. 
Martin  would  look  if  she  could  have  heard  her 
self  called,  "  a  dear  old  soul."  He  raised  his  hat 
as  Pussy  turned  down  the  Avenue,  after  she  had 
three  times  embraced  Winifred  with  exuberant 
affection. 

When  Winifred  Marshall  and  Laurence 
Laughton  arrived  at  the  Grand  Central  Depot,  it 
lacked  but  a  few  minutes  of  five,  but  the  Pacific 
Express  was  nearly  half  an  hour  behind  time. 
They  walked  impatiently  up  and  down  the  long 
platform,  absorbed  in  their  own  thoughts,  and 
exchanging  only  an  occasional  word.  Laughton 
was  in  no  mood  for  perfunctory  conversation, 
and  Winifred  was  too  happy  not  to  remain  silent 
willingly. 


AFTER  MANY  DA  YS.  26$ 

At  last  the  train  came  in  sight ;  the  locomotive 
darted  ahead,  and  was  switched  off  on  a  side 
track  without  the  building,  while  the  cars,  im 
pelled  by  their  acquired  momentum,  rolled  for 
ward  of  their  own  accord  to  their  appointed 
place.  On  the  front  platform  of  the  foremost 
car  stood  Frederick  Olyphant,  peering  ahead 
eagerly.  Before  the  train  stopped  he  sprang  off 
and  clasped  Winifred  in  his  arms.  She  fell  upon 
his  neck,  sobbing  with  the  relief  of  joyous  ex 
citement.  The  throng  of  belated  passengers 
pushed  by  them,  every  man  intent  on  his  own 
business,  and  scarcely  deigning  to  give  a  glance 
to  this  meeting  of  lovers  after  a  long  parting. 

"  My  darling,"  said  Fred,  as  he  kissed  her 
forehead  and  soothed  her  with  his  strong  hands. 

"  Oh,  Fred !  Fred  !  you  have  come  back  to 
me  at  last !  I  have  waited  so  long — so  very 
long,"  she  said,  trying  to  control  herself. 

"  I  will  get  you  a  carriage,"  said  Laurence, 
after  he  and  Fred  had  exchanged  a  silent  grasp 
of  the  hand. 

Laughton  put  them  into  the  carriage  and 
closed  the  door. 

"  You  are  coming  with  us,  Uncle  Larry  ?  " 
urged  Winifred,  her  eyes  still  wet  with  tears. 

"  I  will  leave  you  two  alone,  now,"  Laurence 
answered;  "  I  have  just  remembered  that  there  is 
a  man  at  the  Windsor  Hotel  whom  I  ought  to 
see  before  he  goes  away." 


266  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

She  understood  him  then. 
"  You    will    dine    with    me   to-night,   Uncle 
Larry,"  said  Fred.     "  I  will  call  for  you." 

As  the  carriage  drove  on,  Winifred  gazed  at 
her  lover.  "  How  strong  and  well  you  look, 
Fred,  and  how  beautifully  brown  you  are." 

Fred  took  her  by  the  shoulders  gently,  and 
turned  her  toward  him  and  held  her  at  arm's 
length,  while  he  examined  her.  "  You  have 
suffered,  Winifred,  my  darling;  I  can  see  it  in 
your  face.  But  you  are  more  beautiful  than 
ever ! " 

She  let  her  head  fall  upon  his  breast,  and  said, 
in  a  low  and  trembling  voice,  "  Have  you  for 
given  me,  Fred  ?  " 

"  Forgiven  you  for  what,  my  darling  ?  "  asked 
he. 

"  For  the  wicked  way  I  treated  you  the  day 
we  parted  ?  " 

His  only  answer  was  another  silent  kiss. 

"  You  may  forgive  me,"  she  went  on,  "  for 
you  are  so  noble  and  good;  but  I  can  never 
forgive  myself." 

There  was  another  little  space  of  silence. 

Words  could  not  express  the  happiness  Oly- 
phant  felt.  He  accepted  the  few  short  minutes 
of  this  first  meeting  with  Winifred  as  a  full  com 
pensation  for  the  long  months  of  loneliness  and 
misery. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  she   said,  at   last,  just 


AFTER  MANY  DA  VS. 


267 


before  the  carriage  stopped.  "  Do  you  remem 
ber  my  lending  you  my  ring?" 

"  The  opal  ?  Oh  yes, — but  it  was  stolen  from 
me." 

"  I  have  it,"  she  returned;  "  I  have  put  it  away 
for  ever.  It  brought  us  ill  luck,  as  it  brought 
my  mother  ill  luck,  and  it  shall  never  be  worn 
again.  But  your  cat's-eye  is  lucky.  I  found 
that,  and  I  have  worn  it  ever  since,  and  at  last  it 
has  brought  me  luck — for  it  has  brought  you 
back  to  me!" 

He  kissed  her  again  as  the  carriage  drew  up 
before  Mrs.  Button's  door. 

The  wedding  took  place  a  month  later,  about 
the  middle  of  May.  It  was  as  quiet  as  a  wed 
ding  can  well  be.  There  were  not  more  than 
twenty  present.  Among  them  were  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Martin,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Delancey  Jones,  Miss 
Pussy  Palmer,  and  Mr.  Hobson-Cholmondeley, 
whose  wedding  was  to  take  place  early  in  the 
fall ;  and,  of  course,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sutton,  in 
whose  house  the  ceremony  was  held.  Winifred 
had  insisted  on  being  married  in  the  Lover's 
Retreat,  the  little  Bower  at  the  end  of  Mrs. 
Button's  dining-room.  It  was  there,  she  said,  that 
she  had  so  cruelly  wronged  Fred,  and  it  was  there 
that  they  had  parted,  and  there  she  wished  to  be 
married.  The  Lover's  Retreat  was  therefore 
decked  with  the  fresh  flowers  of  spring.  It  was 


268  THE  LAST  MEETING. 

just  large  enough  to  contain  the  contracting 
parties,  with  the  clergyman,  Judge  Gillespie, 
who  was  to  give  away  the  bride,  and  Laurence 
Laughton,  who  was  the  best  man.  The  bride 
looked  surpassingly  beautiful  in  her  white  silk 
and  creamy  lace,  and  with  the  orange-blossoms 
in  her  hair.  The  flowers  she  carried  in  her  hand 
were  not  white,  as  custom  rules :  she  bore  a 
bunch  of  yellow  roses  which  he  had  sent  her. 


THE   END. 


BRIEF  LIS T  OF  BO OKS  OF  FIC TION 
PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  S  CRIB  NEKS  SONS 


George  W.  Cable. 

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Edward  Eggleston. 

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THE  HOOSIER  SCHOOLMASTER.  Illustrated.  i2mo,  1.25 
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SC£I£NER'S   LIST    OF   BOOKS   OF  FICTION. 


Frank   JR..  Stockton. 

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50 
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Augustus  M.    Swift. 

CUPID,  M.D.     A  Story.     i6mo,          ....          i.oo 


LIST  OF  BOOKS  OF  FICTION. 


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WITHIN  THE  CAPES.     One  vol.     i2mo,    .        .        .       $1.00 

E.   7".   W.  Hoffmann. 

•      WEIRD  TALES.     2  vols.     i2mo.     With  portrait,        .          3,00 

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A  MILLER'S  STORY  OF  THE  WAR.     i6mo,         .        .  1.25 

yules  Verne. 

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A  FLOATING  CITY,  and  THE  BLOCKADE  RUNNERS. 

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HECTOR  SERVADAC.     Illustrated.     8vo,  ....  2.00 

DICK  SANDS.     Illustrated.     8vo, 3.00 

A  JOURNEY  TO  THE  CENTRE  OF  THE  EARTH.    Illustra 
ted.    8vo, 3.00 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  ISLAND.   Illustrated.  8vo,   .  .  3.00 

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THE  DEMON   OF    CAWNPORE.     (Part   I   of  the   Steam 

House).     Illustrated.     I2mo,  .....  1.50 

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THE   CRYPTOGRAM.     (Part  II  of  the  Giant  Raft).     Illus 
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S 'CRIB 'NER'S    LIST    OF    BOOKS    OF  FICTION. 


The  King 's  Men. 

A  Tale  of  To-morrow.     By   Robert   Grant,   John  Boyle 
O'Reilly,  J.S.  of  Dale,  and  John  T.  Wheelwright.  I2mo,  $1.25 

Virginia    W.   Johnson. 
THE  FAINALLS  OF  TIPTON.     i2mo,         .        .        .         1.25 

Mrs.  E.  Prentiss. 

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y.  S.  of  Dale. 

GUERNDALE.     An  Old  Story.     I2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ; 

cloth, 1.25 

THE  CRIME  OF  HENRY  VANE.  By  the  author  of  "  Guern- 

dale."     I2mo i.oo 

Mary  Adams. 
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Count  Leo    Tolstoy. 
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Donald  G.  Mitchell. 

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Julia  Schayer. 
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Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 
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Across  the  Chasm. 

One  vol.     i2mo,  .,,,...          I  oc 


SCRIBNER'S    LIST    OF  BOOKS    OF  FICTION. 


S lories    by    American   Authors. 

A  collection  of  the  most  noteworthy  stories  written  in 
recent  years,  not  hitherto  printed  in  book  form,  now  pub 
lished  by  arrangement  with  the  authors. 

I. — WHO  WAS  SHE  ?  Bayard  Taylor.  THB  DOCUMEVTS  IN  THE  CAPF,  Gran 
der  Matthews  and  H.  C.  Banner.  ONE  OF  THE  THIRTY  PIECES,  William 
Henry  Bishop.  BALACCHI  BROTHERS,  Rebecca  Harding  Davis.  AN 
OPERATION  IN  MONEY,  Albert  Webster.  i6mo,  .  .  .  f  .50 

II. — THE  TRANSFERRED  GHOST,  Frank  R.  Stockton.  A  MARTYR  TO  SCIENCE, 
Mary  Putnam  Jacobi,  M.D.  MKS.  KXOLLVS  J-  S.  of  Dale.  A  DINNF.K 
PARTY,  John  Eddy.  THE  MOUNT  OF  SORROW,  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 
SISTER  SILVIA,  Mary  Agnes  Tinker.  i6mo,  .....  .50 

III. — THE  SPIDER'S  EYE,  Lucretia  P.  Hale.  A  STORY  OF  THE  LATIN  QUARTER, 
Frances  Hodgson  Burnett.  Two  PURSE-COMPANIONS,  George  Parsons 
Lathrop.  POOR  OGLA-MOGA,  David  D.  Lloyd.  A  MEMORABLE  MUKDER, 
Celia  Thaxter.  VENETIAN  GLASS,  Brander  Matthews.  i5mo,  .  .  .50 

IV. — Miss  GRIEF,  Constance  Fenimore  Woolson.  LOVE  IN  OLD  CLOATHES, 
H.  C.  Bunner.  Two  BUCKETS  IN  A  WELL,  N.  P.  Willis.  FRIEND  BARTON'S 
CONCERN,  Mary  Hallock  Foote.  AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST,  J.  W.  DeForest. 
LOST  IN  THE  FOG,  Noah  Brooks.  i6mo,  ......  .50 

V. — A  LIGHT  MAN,  Henry  James.  YATIL,  F.  D.  Millet.  THE  END  OF  NEW 
YORK,  Park  Benjamin.  WHY  THOMAS  WAS  DISCHARGED,  George 
Arnold.  THE  TACHYPOMP,  E.  P.  Mitchell.  i6mo,  ....  .50 

VI.— THE  VILLAGE  CONVICT,  C.  H.  White.  THE  DENVER  EXPRESS,  A.  A. 
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Fairfax.  THE  HEARTBREAK  CAMEO,  Mrs.  L.  W.  Champnpy.  Miss 
EUNICE'S  GLOVE,  Albert  Webster.  BROTHER  SEBASTIAN'S  FRIENDSHIP, 
Harold  Frederick.  i6mo,  ........  .50 

VII. — THE  BISHOP'S  VAGABOND,  Octave  Thanet.  LOST,  Edward  Bellamy. 
KIRBY'S  COALS  OF  FIRE,  Louise  Stockton.  PASSAGES  FROM  THE  JOURNAL 
OF  A  SOCIAL  WRECK,  Margaret  Floyd.  STELLA  GRAYLAND,  James  T. 
McKay.  THE  IMAGE  OF  SAN  DONATO,  Virginia  W.  Johnson,  .  .  .50 

VIII. — THE  BRIGADK  COMMANDER,  J.  W.  DeForest.  SPLIT  ZEPHYR,  Henry  A. 
Beers.  ZERVIAH  HOIK,  Klizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.  THE  LIFE  MAGNET, 
Alvey  A.  Adee.  OSGOOU'S  PREDICAMENT,  Elizabeth  D.  B.  Stoddard,  .  .50 

IX. — MARSE  CHAN,  Thomas  Nelson  Page.  MR.  BIXBY'S  CHRISTMAS  VISITOR, 
Charles  S.  Gage.  ELI,  C.  H.  White.  YOUNG  STRONG  OF  THE  CLARION, 
Millicent  Washburn  Shinn.  How  OLD  WIGGINS  WORE  SHIP,  Captain 
Rowland  F.  Coffin.  " MAS  HAS  COME,"  Leonard  Kipp,  .  .  .  .50 

X. — PANCHA,  T.  A.  Janvier.  THE  ABLEST  MAN  IN  THE  WORLD,  E.  P. 
Mitchell.  YOUNG  MOLL'S  PEEVY,  C.  A.  Stephens.  MANMAT'HA,  Charles 
de  Kay.  A  DARING  FICTION,  H.  H.  F-oyesen.  THE  STORY  OF  Two 
LIVES,  Julia  Schayer,  .........  .50 

Complete  Sets,  10  vols.  in  a  box,  $5.00. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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